Achievement Hunter's Creed
by niknakmess
Summary: John Pettit is a master assassin within the city of Boston, Massachusetts. And once friction begins between the colonists and the British empire, he realizes he'll need more than just himself to take down such a force. Not only have tensions begun to rise, but a trouble from John's past may also be bubbling to the surface. Based on if the AH guys were in the AC3 world.
1. Chapter 1

I've been working on a cross-over fic for the guys from Achievement Hunter and Assassin's Creed. From the summary you can see it is set in the period of the American Revolution. This is mostly because AC3 is the multiplayer most of the guys played together.

As for the title and characters, for the life of me I could not come up with a better title. The guys names have been changed to fit the time period, as in for this chapter:  
**Jack Pattillo is known as John Pettit**  
**Gavin Free is known as Gabriel Frer**

Updates will most likely be weekly, so expect every Saturday, unless something comes up.  
The first four chapters will be almost like intros to each new recruit.

Also this is only **set in the world of Assassin's Creed 3, no characters from the game are included, it's solely based around the AH guys.**

Thanks for deciding to read, and I'd love some feed back if possible.

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Boston Harbor, January 1769

The sound of the slap bounced off the four walls of the ship warehouse. The place was barely lit, the only source of light coming from a hole in the roof, and the shine of the half moon. The gold buttons on Gabriel's red coat glinted, as he sat tied to a chair straight under the cavity. His attacker, and kidnapper stuck to the shadows, he had yet to see their face. Gabriel turned his head and spat blood onto the ground, some dribbled down his chin, staining his once pristine uniform. Thick docking ropes were tied around his chest keeping his arms from moving. A large black bruise stung at his right eye, then he spat another mouthful of blood onto the ground.

"What are you bloody well doing?" Gabriel called out to the shadows, struggling against his restraints. Sweat had formed a sticky film onto his skin, his right eye thumped in pain, his uniform was caked with blood and dirt, and he had no idea what was going to happen to him. He swallowed audibly before speaking again, "What's the matter? To afraid to face me yourself?" A booming laughter was heard from the darkness.

"Yer really not in any position to be making threats." John dipped a match into his pipe; he waved it out with his hand. He took a few puffs, then stepped towards his captive.

Gabriel swallowed again as the man stepped forward. He was a tall man, muscular as well, his face well hidden by a white hood. Belts crisscrossed at his chest, they were loaded with ammunition, medicine pockets, and throwing knives. At his sides hung two flintlock pistols and a sword that was lazily attached to his hip. He pulled the pipe from his mouth, and bent down towards Gabriel, blowing smoke into his face.

"You are a scrawny one aren't cha?" John circled around the chair, taking a hit from his pipe every few moments, and exhaling the smoke back towards the soldier. He could see the boy struggling to hold back a cough, John narrowed his eyes. He pulled back on the soldier's sweat soaked hair, so the his face went to the sky. Unsheathing his hidden blade, he pressed it towards his prisoner's throat. "What's yer name?" John asked.

Gabriel felt his adam's apple strain in his throat. The steel of the man's blade was cool against his sweat soaked skin. His eyes were forced upward to look at the half moon by the man strongly tugging his hair. The small amount of blood that began pooling up in his mouth was slid down his throat by the action. "Gabriel," he croaked out, "Gabriel Frer." He darted his eyes around the ceiling feeling some panic arise in his stomach. He knew his smart mouthing would catch up to him one day. He felt the blade leave his skin, and the tension on his hair cease. Gabriel snapped his head back forward, feeling as though that would protect his neck from the man's blade.

John chortled, shaking his head a bit. His blade retracted with a distinctive sound. He swung himself around to the front of the wooden chair, squatting so he would be eye level with the soldier. Lowering his hood, he stuck his hand out "John Pettit." He noticed him glare at his extended hand, for Gabriel's own were trapped at his side. John smirked a bit, then let his hand fall back onto his thigh with a slap. "You angry at me?"

Gabriel bit back his snarky retort. Of course he was angry, furious even; anyone would be after being captured from their quartering house in the dead of night. The man-John, stroked at his large orange beard. He looked like a heathen mountain man, and perhaps if Gabriel were not in the current situation he would tell John that he should shave the damn thing before he was mistaken for savage. Gabriel grinned at the thought. "Look, I don't know what you want-"

"Oh well that's easy," John waved a dismissive hand "I want your body to be hung on the scaffolding in the town square." John flashed him a smile, as the kid seemed to go paler, if that was at all possible. "In fact," John rose from his squatting position "the only reason yer still alive, is because I need some information."He relit his pipe took a hit, the offered it out towards Gabriel, who shook his head, and turned it away in an act of defiance. John shrugged; putting his boot up onto the bottom of the seat he began tipping Gabriel back towards the gaping hole in the wooden floorboards. Unsheathing his blade, he inspected its shine in the light idly. "Why are your troops in Boston?" His tone was calm, but the deadly undertones shone through.

Gabriel clutched on the side of his chair for dear life, the skin over his knuckles was extremely taunt, his heart rate accelerated until her could feel the muscle pounding against his ribcage. He glanced over his shoulder only to see the dark waters below. In his current state, falling in would surely mean death. He looked forward as best he could; his other option did not seem very welcoming either. "I don't know," Gabriel pleaded. His chair tipped back more, and he could feel the warmth of blood rushing to his head. "Really, I swear I don't," Gabriel felt as though he was on the brink of tears, "I only enlisted a couple weeks ago. I was only doing what I was told." A single laugh from John pierced the air.

"That's what they all say," John concentration was barely focused on the soldier. He wasn't going to kill him, but Gabriel didn't need to know that. His foot was firmly hooked under the chair, Gabriel would only fall if John wished it.

No amount of training Gabriel had had prepared him for a situation like this. All the practice had been done with a formal setting. Structured lines, and fair play. But this man, this John Pettit, obviously did not play by the rules of war. He had knocked Gabriel out, kidnapped him, and brought him to some warehouse where he's being tortured. John may fight for the colonies but certainty not in any traditional militia. "I swear on my life, I don't know anything."

John chuckled "I thought by this point you would realize your life does not mean that much to me." He took another drag from his pipe. John tipped Gabriel forward more so, and held his pipe up for him to see. "Like it," John questioned "hand crafted by some friends, you see." John made a game of pulling the chair back and forth with his foot "people like me, they like what I do, because I'm protecting them from you people." John waved his pipe hand towards the open air. "These next couple years are going to be hell for you if you stay where you are so, Gabriel Frer, I'm going to offer you a proposition." John withdrew his blade once again, and dropped his chair to the floor with an echoing slam.

Gabriel had never had his eyes squeezed so tight in his entire life, including the time a man's musket accidentally went off and almost shot him on his second day at camp. He thought he was finally done for; that he had been staring death in the face, and it was a bearded mountain man. He took in a sharp breath as the chair hit the floor. In a state of disbelief Gabriel lowered his head to watch as John paced in front of him. He was having a hard time comprehending him though; it felt as though in his state of panic all of his senses had shut down, all Gabriel could do was stare ahead.

"You hearing me boy," John questioned. Gabriel shook his head left and right slowly. John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you want to live or do you want to die," John asked. His patience was wearing thin, and his moral compass was slowly becoming less visible in his mind.

"Live," Gabriel barely squeaked out the word. His stomach felt like it was flipping inside him, and it was taking all of his strength not to lose it right then and there.

"Fantastic," John smirked, and pulled a serrated dagger out from one of his belts. He saw the fear return to Gabriel's face, "calm down I already gave you the choice." John bent down and began sawing away at the knot he had tied Gabriel up with. The rope gave, and piled to the floor around the chair.

Gabriel stumbled as he stood; he pressed a hand to his stomach, then looked down only to see his blood splattered onto the floor. The warmth drained from his face, and he ran to the nearest wall. He dry heaved a couple of times, then spit out the blood and stomach acid that had arisen into his mouth. He heard a bellowing laugh from behind him. He wiped the excess fluid from his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform. He felt John clap a hand onto his shoulder, Gabriel looked up at him with heavy eyes.

"Welcome to the Brotherhood."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N  
Hey guys, back with chapter 2 this week.  
This chapter is Geoff centric.  
**Geoff Ramsey is known as George Ransom**  
**Jack Pattillo is known as John Pettit**  
**Gavin Free is known as Gabriel Frer**

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Outskirts of Boston- Camp of the Minutemen, Early May 1771

George Ransom never liked the color red. Not when he was young and learned it bled from his veins, and not now when the enemy wears the shade. Kill British soldiers; make them pay for what they've done. His father's words had rung in his ears since they had been said twenty years ago.

George ceased polishing his gun, which earned him a couple looks from the other soldiers. He blankly stared ahead into the surrounding woods. All laughing around him had reached an abrupt stop, the men stopped pretending to shoot at ghosts of red coats, and a couple guys tried to follow his gaze into the darkness. "Ransom," a voice called out his name, and George snapped from his trance brought on by the memory, he glanced to his left. Tim Bedel had broken the seemingly everlasting silence, "You all good there?" George nodded his head slowly. His thoughts always seemed to be lost when they spent an overwhelming time at camp. During battles, George was in the moment, and his mind could focus on ten things at once. But once he was stationary only one thought remained in his head and no amount of joking, gun cleaning, or practice shooting could get it out.

They had set up camp some two weeks ago, and have yet to move from the spot. None of them knew what was going on the only thing the general uttered was "we'll be here for a while, make yourselves comfortable", the troops haven't heard from him since. No talk of oncoming battles, or enemy troops moving out. Hell, he barely left his tent other than to piss. They all assumed something big was about to happen, that he was ceaselessly planning. And they weren't wrong.

The laughing continued after George had been brought out of his state. Some of the guys threw spoonfuls of week old stew at each other, others made shapes with their hands in the swaying flames. George was uninterested, the weeks spent cooped up here had made him antsy, and he could feel his attention slipping. He leaned his musket up against the log the boys had brought over so they could sit. Pushing on his knees he rose, he stared at the fire's flames for a couple moments. Then hurdled the log, and walked towards the faraway field.

"Ransom," he turned at the sound of his name. "Not too far," Tim Bedel said with a smile. George gave him a slight nod, and a curt wave with his hand to show he understood. Shoving his hands into the short pockets of his trousers, he sulked his way into the darkness.

The rains had been coming fast and heavy for the past month, but have finally been letting up. Nevertheless, George's boots made an unpleasant squelching sound as he strode through the mud. The rain had not only turned the field into a muddy landscape, but washed up some poorly buried bodies of soldiers. His foot connected with that of an overturned red coat. "Son of a," he looked down to see the corpse, narrowed his eyes then kicked again for good measure "even when they're dead they still manage to piss me off." After scraping off some mud from his boot onto the dead man's jacket George pressed on.

He walked until he could barely see the glow of the camp in the distance. Easing himself down a on a nearby boulder with a sigh, he turned his head upwards and glanced at the stars. Pulling out a flask from his inside pocket, he took a swig. The alcohol burned all the way to his stomach, and felt so good. The problem with camp was a constant fire at night left little for the stars to overpower. He often found himself escaping just to grab a glance at the natural lights. George smiled for the slightest second of time. Stretching out his legs he laid back, folding his arms behind his head, and watched the small lights twinkle until his eyelids felt heavy.

His eyes snapped open at the shouts in the distance. A gun fired off, and George sprung himself upright, and glanced over at where his beacon would be. The fire was out. Trouble. His feet sank into the mud as he leapt from the boulder. Tearing his legs from the ground he sprinted back towards camp, his heavy breath escaping into the cool night air in tangible puffs.

George reached the camp as quickly as his feet would allow. Their white tents had been torn down, bullet holes littered the fabric and ground. A couple feet away the fire had smoldered down to barely embers, leaving the dark to creep further into the deserted camp. At that moment, George only wished he had brought his musket with him on his walk. Warily, he reached down and slipped out the extra knife he kept stowed in his boot. Questions filled his head as he ventured further into the camp. What happened, and who did this being the most prominent two.

His steps were even and cautious, turning himself efficiently every once and awhile to watch his own back. George approached the fallen logs where his fellow men had been sitting and joking around only a short time ago. There were obvious signs of a struggle, large tracks in the dirt where heels had been dug in, George glanced to where he had been sitting, his musket was gone. He sighed and squatted down to examine the ground more closely. Picking up some dirt he rubbed it in between his fingers, and then something flashed in the dying light of the fire. A black liquid stuck in his peripheral vision. Dipping his fingers into the substance, and holding it up to the light he could see the distinctive red color. Blood, fresh too. George rubbed it onto his trousers, gripped his knife tighter, and followed the tiny trail of glinting liquid.

He could hear the wheezing gasps of breath before he could even see Tim Bedel. The fire light hit him just perfectly enough that his wounds were put on display. A large gash ran across his forehead, causing blood to flood down on his face until it was nothing but red with spots of white skin. A bayonet was shoved into his upper arm, and his hand was tucked into his coat covering whatever wound lay on the right side of his chest. George scrambled to lean down next to his friend. "Tim," he whispered, no response. "Tim," he said more frantically, suddenly Tim's eyes snapped open and his features became etched with pain as he reached out and grabbed George by the front of his jacket. Tim pulled him closer.

"C-c-c," Tim turned his head and coughed blood onto the already soiled ground "Colonel attacked us, red coats out of nowhere, hit me over the head." His head thumped against the ground as he tried to catch his breath.

"Just calm down Timmy," George said straightening his voice "you're going to be all right." He opened Tim's jacket, and lifted the hand that was covering his chest. Blood slowly spread further into his white undershirt, and George could plainly see the bullet sized hole. "Fuck," he whispered to himself. Tearing off a piece of his own jacket, and balling it up he created a compress. He placed it onto Tim's bleeding chest, and positioned Tim's own bloodied hand over it. George could feel Tim's half lidded eyes watching him

"Ransom," George turned to him, even the blood could not hide the fact that his face was completely drained of color. "Get 'em for me okay?" George swallowed, and nodded his head slowly. "I'm gonna be okay," Tim whispered, his face contorted a bit, the pain seizing him "I'm gonna be okay, I'm gonna…" His words were lost to the hands of death.

"No, no, fuck, come on buddy," George pulled Tim's body closer, and applied small pats to his left cheek. "Come on stay with me, you're going to be okay right?" George, pressed onto his chest with both his hands a couple times "you said so yourself you're going to be okay, come on, you fucker don't give up on me." But Tim was already gone, and George already knew slowly stopped pressing on his friend's lifeless body. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to do something. George placed his fingers over Tim's open eyelids, and closed them, so he only appeared to be asleep. Grabbing Tim's pistol, George stalked away, hoping he'd have the chance to bury his friend's body, after he massacred those responsible. He set out for the colonel's tent.

He could hear hushed voices whispering to each other frantically from inside the only white tent unaffected by the struggle. Words like "hostages, prisoners, captured" pounded against his eavesdropping ears. Peering between the flaps of the tent George could see at least six red coats huddled in a circle, and his 'Colonel' pacing in front of them. "We have to move them out tonight," one red coat whispered to his brethren.

"We're still missing one," Colonel pounded a fist onto his desk causing one of the soldiers to jump "of course it's the most skilled one, the most valuable one." George felt his eyes widened at his realization. Colonel was taking his troops and selling them to British forces as prisoners and hostages. And apparently his own head was worth quite a lot. No wonder Colonel always returned, but all his troops had 'died in battle', there were no casualties, only number figures. George clicked back the hammer on his pistol as quietly as he could. If his fellow soldiers were to be sold then they'd have to be close by, and be ready for shipment off to some red coat camp. Keeping both of his weapons handy, he tip toed around to the back of the tent.

Light from the tent provided a spotlight onto the area where his fellow men were. A large wooden post had been erected from the ground, all the men sat with their backs to the it, rags in their mouth, and eyes covered. Each one of them bore bruises or cuts in some way. George smirked; none of them would go down without a fight. Checking over his shoulder, he watched as the shadows moved around inside the tent, and once he was clear, crawled his way over to his fellow men.

Seven of them were tied to the post, George approached the one around the back, as to keep away from the light as best as possible. He quickly shot out his hand and further covered the man's mouth. "It's me, it's George," he said slowly, as the man's muffled protests and curses moved against his palm. "Don't worry; I'm going to get you out." Placing his knife between the ropes that bound his hands together, George made quick work of sawing away. The ropes buckled, and the soldier ripped the blindfold and mouth gag from his face.

"Georgie aren't you a sight," Samuel Switzer announced as quietly as he could in his southern drawl. Sam rubbed at his rope burned wrists. "God damn colonel jumped us 'long wit the bunch of red coats." George smiled a bit, then moved on to the next soldier.

Six of them had been freed without much fuss. All had known to keep quiet, but the last, David Hall, was new and trembled as George continued to saw at his ropes. David let out a tiny squeak as the ropes fell from his wrists. He removed the boy's blindfold, and David gave him a look as though he wanted to hug him, he removed the gag from his own mouth. George motioned with his hand for David to follow him to where the tent's light did not shine. Their group had formed a small cluster, discussing their situation in a hushed whisper.

"We should leave," Jeremiah Owens said quickly as George and David joined the group

"You shitting me," Sam retorted "I wanna look the guy in the eye who did this tah me," he indicated to the gash running down his left cheek "and give 'em a matching one." A quiet battle broke out between the men, curses were flung left and right. And Samuel Switzer had grabbed Jeremiah by the front of his coat, having a look in his eyes as though he wanted to knock him out.

"Everyone calm down," George said through clenched teeth. "Owens has the right idea, we don't have any weapons, and as much as I'd like to fuck those guys up, I like my life more." Hall hurriedly nodded his head in agreement with George. Suddenly, George's pistol was snatched from his hand, and Samuel now held it to the air.

"Who made you commander huh," he said teasingly, Sam cocked his head to the side "jus' cause you and Tim were 'ere first don't mean shit, and I ain't gonna lie down and take it." He pulled back the hammer.

"Sam no," George half whispered, half screamed as he reached for the gun, but it was already too late, Sam fired off a bullet, and the shadows inside the tent stirred. "You fucking idiot," George yelled "now we're all screwed. Scatter! All of you." But it was too late; the red coats emerged from the tent muskets loaded, and ready to shoot. Sam ran towards them, pistol aimed. He was shot down immediately. His body hit the ground with a hard thump, the other men yelled out shouts, some advancing towards the red coats, others fleeing. George felt something grab his coat arm, he spun to punch his attacker, only to see David Hall indicating with his head the direction of the city. He took off in a sprint with Hall not far behind. More shots were fired and more bodies fell to the ground. George looked behind him and saw them now, four dead on the ground, two others being chased by three red coats, and three red coats starting to advance on him and David.

"Ransom," Colonel called out his name "you owe me some prisoners." George could hear the smugness in his voice, and it took all of his strength not to run back there, knife in hand, and find the Colonel's heart a sufficient place to bury the blade. He heard a shot be fired off from behind them, and then a body hit the ground. David Hall screamed, and grabbed his lower leg. George dug his heels into the soft earth, made a quick turn, grabbed the boy's body, and started dragging him by his arms. "Come on, you're fine, you're all right," George said, but David continued his wails. He could just barely see the city lights, before another shot rang out. He felt David's arms go limp in his hands. "Fuck," he dropped the body, and turned his back on it, using the last of his strength to reach the city border.

George's breathing was labored, and he could feel his body telling him to quit. He fought through the pain, until he reached the only open building, an Inn with a bustling bar. He ducked into the door, and pressed his back against it until he heard the soldier's boots pass. He turned to face the room, and noticed upon his entrance that all conversation and music had stopped. Someone in the back coughed lightly.

"Eh drink fo' a soldier," the words were barely intelligible from a drunk voice in the crowd, but almost the entire room raised a glass to him, then continued their mindless drunken chatter. George let out a long breath, and then place his hands on his knees trying to catch whatever air he could in his lungs. Sweat drips streaked down his face, his entire body felt sticky with grime, and the atmosphere he was currently in left little to no fresh air. A pair of brown leather boots entered his downcast vision.

"Seems like you ran into some trouble eh," a gruff voice questioned. George slowly rolled his body straight. He stared for a bit. In front of him was a man almost completely made up of weapons. Pistol here, knives there, everywhere was some other type of armament. "Well, am I wrong," he asked. George shook his head, almost certain he would have agreed to whatever this man said in his current state. George was good with weapons and battle but right now he was exhausted and he'd rather not provoke a bear. "How about I buy you a drink?" George nodded more feverishly than he would like to admit.

He plopped down at the stained wooden table across from the hooded man. They sat in a pregnant silence for quite some time, until the man let out a low whistle. Through the bustling crowd came a red coat soldier carrying three mugs of ale in his two hands. George felt a growl rumble in the back of this throat, had this all been a trick? Was the man in white only there to bring him back to the Colonel? And yet, he was too weak to make a move from the seat.

"Oi John," the man in red called as he held the cups above his head to keep them out of reach of the rowdy crowd. He battled his way through, and sat down next to John. "Crazy crowd tonight," he said in an obvious accent, his eyes darted to George who glared at him with all the strength he could muster up. "Who's your friend?" he indicated to George with a jerk of his thumb.

"Gabriel, this is George Ransom," the man said "George, Gabriel Frer, and I'm John Pettit." George snorted at John's last name. Lowering his hood, John stared a George for a short amount of time. He looked as though he were about to collapse. "Hey buddy," George picked up his head from the slackened position it was in. John pushed the mug towards him "drink, you'll feel better."

George falteringly reached out for the cup watching Gabriel as he did so, the boy only gave him a confused look. He snatched it like a viper striking its prey, and then guzzled the whole thing in one gulp. John was right he did feel much better, wiping his lips with the sleeve of his jacket he looked at Gabriel once more "what's he doin' here?"

Gabriel sulked at George's words, he crossed his arms. "Wot's his problem with me," Gabriel said in an accusing tone. Seriously he'd only just met the guy.

John had a realization, and had to keep from smacking his hand to his own forehead. "Yer still wearing yer uniform ya idiot," John gave Gabriel a quick smack on the back of the head. "Of course he don't trust us, he's been running from these guys for the past hour," John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"So you're not a red coat then," George kept his eyes on Gabriel.

"Course he ain't," John said "trust me I associate with the bloody bastards the same way you do, or did I guess." George snapped his head in John's direction.

"You been spyin' on me?"

"Well I saw your whole little scuffle back at your camp, and I'll admit I been watching you closely for the past couple years," John took a swig of his drink, then pulled out his pipe, stuck it between his teeth, and lit it "nice job by the way. Much better to run and save your own skin, then stash the revenge for another day." John let out a few puffs on his pipe, and looked over at Gabriel. He was idling himself by picking at the stitched up uniform. John slapped his hand, Gabriel let out a whine "come on you know how much it cost for me to get a tailor to fix that."

"Not to interrupt a lover's spat, but why the fuck are you even talking to me," George was tired, and honestly all he wanted was to crawl into an inn bed at this point, and let the alcohol work its magic. Gabriel and John exchanged a quick glance, then both looked at George. "Well," George tilted his chair onto the back two legs, and folded his arms over his chest "I'm listenin'."

"Well George, if I may call you that," John started, and George gave him a curt nod signaling it was all right "my friend Gabriel and I are part of a brotherhood here in Boston." George's chair fell back onto the four legs. He leaned in, and the two followed suit.

"You guys are the white and red shadows," George said in a whisper "we used to share stories about you two all the time at camp." He observed as Gabriel gave John a smug smile. John in return smacked him on the nose. The boys had often heard stories along the road about two men who committed acts against British soldier throughout Boston, and called themselves a 'brotherhood'; they were never caught, and never seen. George then looked over to Gabriel, who was rubbing his nose "somehow I find this very hard to believe."

"White and red shadow," Gabriel questioned as he released his nose "is that really what they call us?" George nodded, and then Gabriel narrowed his eyes "what do you mean hard to believe?" George shrugged, and smirked a bit to himself.

"Anyway," John said, sending a glare toward Gabriel, who held up his hands defensively "I've been watching you for quite some time, and I think we could use someone like you in the brotherhood." John puffed on his pipe again. "The only one I've had to interact with for a couple of years now has been this guy," he directed with his head towards Gabriel "and you can see how easy that is."

"Damn John you are just ripping on me today aren't you," Gabriel leaned back and crossed his arms, an obvious pout forming on his lips.

"So what do you say there Ransom," George, who had been trying to keep his eyes away from John looked directly at him, John stuck out his hand. "Want to join our brotherhood."

George stared at John's hand for some time. The stories soldiers had told along the road sounded intense. They spoke about how the two shadows dove off of rooftops, and could poison ten red coats without even being noticed. George had been used to his style of fighting, straight and outright. Still.

"I promise you can get whatever revenge you want," John said. George could feel his smile go crooked. He grasped John's hand in his own and gave a hearty shake. "It'll be useful to have someone who actually knows how to use a gun other than me."

"Come on John, you're killing me, you know I've been trying," Gabriel whined. George and John shared a laugh, and clinked their mugs together. John raised his, George and Gabriel followed suit.

"To the brotherhood."


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys! Back this week the the chapter on Michael.

As stated before names of the guys have been changed in order to fit the time period, as for this chapter:  
**Michael Jones is known as Malcolm Johnston**

**Jack Pattillo is known as John Pettit**  
**Gavin Free is known as Gabriel Frer**

I guess a little warning about stronger language, it is Michael after all.

* * *

Main square of Boston, July 1771

Steam hissed from the cool water as Malcolm dunked the newly forged steel into its depth. The red hot metal soon cooled, leaving behind a spectacular metallic sheen. Another perfectly made blade. He rubbed the sweat from his brow with a leather gloved hand. Malcolm had been working at this smithing stand for ten years of his life. He started as merely an errand boy, relaying messages from the master to clientele. He'd stand out in the square yelling out prices, deals, and the overall good quality of the craft made at the shop. Once the old owner had collected a fat enough stack of coins, he practically threw the stand at Malcolm.

So now at the age of twenty-five he owned the most successful blacksmithing stand in Boston. A fact he was quite proud of. Malcolm observed the newest blade, and after deeming it passable, positioned it on a fixture on the wall. He admired his weapons for a moment, then removed the black apron from over his head, and hung it from a hook on the nearby post.

"Eh boss," Malcolm turned to see his two employees, Jesse Kipp and Henry Gaddy, moving towards the back door. "We gon go and grab some lunch, you wanna come?" Malcolm shook his head, and stared at a piece of iron.

"No, you two go ahead," he waved them away "I got something I want to finish." The two looked at each other, shrugged, and made their way out of the stand. Malcolm picked up the chunk of metal, and turned it in his hand. "An axe maybe," Malcolm held it up at eye level, attempting to see the weapon that lie inside. "No, no, a knife then?" Again he shook his head. He opted for a wooden chair at the front of the shop that Gaddy sat in when people were scarce. Putting his feet up on the counter where prices were discussed, he tossed the metal up and down. He snatched it half way through his toss, and stared at it. "What are you?"

"Malcolm Johnston," a voice said from over the counter, Malcolm parted his feet so they looked to be a fan. He stared at the two red coat soldiers that stood in his view. Moving his feet down from the counter he stood up from the chair. He placed his hands down. Malcolm wasn't oblivious to the feuding going on between colonists and British, but who was he to turn away business? This was his job after all.

"What can I help you with, new sword? Ammunition? Anything specific need to be made, guaranteed to be done in less than three days." Malcolm regurgitated all his normal business talk; it had become second nature at this point. The second soldier raised an eyebrow, and exchanged a glance with the first.

"Um, no." the soldier at the front grabbed and pulled out a piece of parchment from his inside pocket, "This is a declaration from the troops of Britain, you are to vacate the premises immediately, hand over ownership and deed, and no longer operate business within the city of Boston." He extended the paper to Malcolm, whose bottom lip had dropped ever so slightly.

Blinking back the look of surprise, Malcolm grabbed the parchment; it crinkled under his firm grip. He ripped the nicely tied red ribbon from its position and quickly scanned the inked words. "No longer under your control…hereby" Malcolm mumbled out the finely written sentences. He stopped at one point, and felt his eyes widened "you demand." He gritted his teeth. Though he may not seem it, Malcolm was infamous for a bad temper, and God help anyone who dared argue with him while he's in a rotten mood.

"Sir, we ask that you collect any belongings and leave," the front most soldier deadpanned to him. "This stand no longer belongs to you."

"Like hell I'll leave," he shouted, causing a couple nearby heads to turn "this place is mine, and you'll have to take it from my dead body before I give it over willingly." He watched the second soldier's smile grow. The first placed a hand against his fellow fighter's chest.

"Mister Johnston, Malcolm," the first one chose a calm tone, Malcolm sneered at him. "We were instructed to use any means necessary, and my friend here," he indicated with a thumb behind him, Malcolm flicked his eyes over. "Let's just say they call him Sir. Trigger Happy back at camp." Malcolm glared.

"You threatening me?"

The soldier held up his hands "no, just a warning really." Malcolm could see the, 'Sir Trigger Happy', feeling the pistol that hung from the belt across his hips. He cocked his head to the side, and sneered at Malcolm. Challenging him to make a move. Malcolm ran his tongue along his teeth, and when he brought his head to look back at the soldier in front of him, spat in his face.

He stumbled back, knocking the soldier behind him out of formation. Malcolm quickly turned and grabbed the sword he just made from the back wall. He held the parchment above his head; the soldier had just finished wiping his face free of spit. "This is what I think of your 'declaration'," he shouted and threw the scroll into the nearby furnace. Malcolm took off into a sprint, and leapt over the counter. The two soldiers stepped back at his sudden appearance. The front one drew his sword, and the back had his pistol ready and aimed. Malcolm darted his eyes between the two. He could handle the one with the sword, he knew swords, hell he probably made that sword. But as Sir Trigger Happy clicked back the hammer, he could feel his stomach drop. Malcolm could see the sadistic smile grow on the gun toter's lips.

"Eh you," he heard someone call from behind him "duck!" An explosion sounded from behind him, as Malcolm dropped to the cobble stone street. He looked up to see the soldier glance down at his chest; he touched the wound, and came back with the sticky red fingers.

"Damn," was all he could mutter before dropping to the ground. A scream rang out, and the crowds began to scatter. Malcolm smirked, and from his position on the cobblestones, knocked the other's sword away from his loose hand. He pointed the tip towards the soldier's throat.

"Back away, one death was enough for me," Malcolm narrowed his eyes "for now." The soldier held up his hands in defense, turned on his heel and raced away from the scene. "Yeah, you better run!" Malcolm called after him. He then turned to the body on the street, tipped his head, and bowed dramatically "Sir." He felt someone clap a hand onto his shoulder.

"Yeah get out of here you slimy little git," the voice was the same as the one who told him to duck "well, we right took care of them, didn't we?" Malcolm followed the hand down an arm, to see a body, clad in a British uniform. He sprung away from the man, and held his sword up, ready for another bout. "H-hey calm down now," the Brit said "I'm on your side, remember?" Malcolm narrowed his eyes.

"You on my side, why you dressed like them," he lifted the sword higher, and raised his chin a bit. The man in front of him looked down, and suddenly looked very frustrated with himself.

"God damn it Gabriel, ya little nob," he stomped his foot, scolding himself. Malcolm took a step back. What an idiot. "No, I swear, I was sent here by John Pettit. He said you know him?" He lowered his sword, but kept a wary gaze on the man in front of him.

"You know John," Malcolm asked. John had been coming around the stand since Malcolm was twenty. The old owner always said that he was one of their most important customers, and that whatever order he made was to be put at the top of the list. He often spoke as if the entire balance of the world rested on John's shoulders. Only once Malcolm took over the business did he truly understand why his boss had put John on such a high pedestal, his work was much more important than any soldier, or sell sword's could ever be. After his rise to ownership, Malcolm still provided John with any, and all supplies he needed, discounted price and repair made cheap of course.

"Ha yes, I guess you can say we work together," Malcolm felt his eyes widen at the new information. John? John Pettit hired a man like this to work with? What did he slam his head on the street that day?

"He made you his partner," when Malcolm said it out loud, it was even harder to believe if that was at all possible.

"Well actually," the red coat started to say, then his eyes began darted around. Malcolm looked around himself. Many confused stares were being thrown their way, especially with a red coat's dead body merely feet away. "We should talk somewhere else, won't be long before others arrive," the man whispered behind a hand.

"Why should I trust you?" The sound of hoof beats rang off in the distance. The Brit smiled.

"You don't have much of a choice," he turned and dashed down the cobbled street. Malcolm turned his head to see multiple red coats on horseback turn a far corner. He looked back at the red clad figure retreating towards the harbor.

"I swear if I get killed, I'm going to murder someone," he said, then took off.

He tried to hide deep inhales by taking them in in small spurts. The red coat looked to be barely phased by the good fifteen minutes of sprinting. Malcolm looked over at him, he had his hand against his forehead shielding his eyes from the sun. He did a quick rotation, nodded as though he were satisfied with what he saw, then he his two hands up to his mouth. A low bird like whistle sounded from him, and was answered seconds later by a similar tune. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of white, and before he knew what was happening John was standing next to the red coat, casually flipping a knife in his hand.

"How you doin' Malcolm," John asked. Malcolm had to keep his eye from twitching.

"Well you know John, I don't really know. My fucking stand was stolen, which means I'm assuming my weapons were stolen as well. And then your little friend over here swoops in telling me to trust him, when he's wearing a goddamn red coat uniform. And oh yeah, I can't even open another fucking business because I've been kicked out of Boston, so all in all it's pretty fucking great." Malcolm did his best to keep his screaming hushed.

"Huh," the red coat said "quite a gob on this one, am I right?" Malcolm lunged towards him, but was knocked back by one of John's massive arms. Malcolm ended up with his back flat on the ground. Sitting up he rubbed his head. He stared at John a little amazed, how could one guy without even trying, knock him flat on his ass?

"Gabriel, you keep wearing that uniform 'round so casually, yer gonna get killed one day," John scolded. "I told you it's for undercover work only, and yet you still decide to strut around like an ass in the thing." Gabriel seemed to shrink at these words. John turned back to Malcolm. "Sorry about my colleague's idiocy," John threw an annoyed glance over his shoulder at Gabriel. He extended his hand to Malcolm.

Malcolm grasped John's forearm, and was lifted up with ease by the assassin. He dusted off the back of his shirt "thanks." John smiled, and draped an arm across Malcolm's shoulder.

"Why don't you and I take a walk," John said, starting a trek towards where the brotherhood was currently stationed. Malcolm complied. "I've got an offer for you that's going to make you very happy." Malcolm narrowed his eyes, and glanced at John in his peripheral view.

"What kind of offer?"

Gabriel cracked one eye open, he had still been shrunken down, afraid that John was going to smack him again. But when he opened his eyes, his fellow men had moved on. He looked around slightly panicked. Gabriel finally spotted them heading towards the way that lead to the back door of the brotherhood's hideout. He jumped up and down, and waved his arms "hey, hey guys wait fo' me." He hurdled a nearby bench, and took off after them.

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I hope I captured Michael all right, he was actually kind of challenging for me to write.  
Thanks for reading, feel free to review!


	4. Chapter 4

Back this week with Ray! Sorry I'm a day late, I was very busy yesterday, this is also my longest chapter so far, so forgive me.

I'm telling you right now for this chapter, **please open Google Translate in another tab, or window**, since Ray is of Puerto Rican descent I have him coming over from Puerto Rico thus he will only be speaking Spanish for some time. I also got my translations from Google, so apologies to those native speakers out there, I have taken Spanish, but I wasn't very good at it, and this is much much simpler solution for all.

That said as in all the chapter names have been changed:  
**Ray Narvaez Jr. is known as Ramón Navas.  
Jack Pattillo is known as John Pettit.**

Enjoy and as always, thanks for reading!

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Slave trader ship, Puerto Rico, Early September 1771

The end of the musket hit him square between his shoulder blades. The man with the gun barked something at him in some language. Ramón snarled, but bit his tongue to keep from lashing out. The welts on his back were already proof that he should just keep his mouth shut around these people. The ships boarding ramp was rough and dug splinters into his bare feet. The chains at his wrists had already chafed away most of the top layer of his skin, and he could feel the warmth of blood in between his fresh layer flesh and the metal.

One of the men on the ship snatched the chain between his hands, and pulled him forward. He shouted something, and Ramón felt the warm spit run down his left cheek. He was suddenly shoved to the right where a cluster of other people were all sporting some type of wound, and chains around their wrists. They were all chattering furiously, some angry, some crying, and all questioning their fate.

The pale men had formed a corral around him, and the others. They yelled something that they knew none of them could understand then started pushing people forward. One by one they went down a hatch in the middle boat leading down to the hull of the ship. Ramón was the last one in their single file line. He glanced over his shoulder at the white man behind him, he looked tired, and though the men up front had their guns at the ready, his was hanging loosely from his hand. Ramón smirked, and stopped moving. He picked up his right knee, and kicked back as hard as he could. He connected with the man's stomach, and heard him gasp for air. Ramón turned and saw the man fall to his knees, clutching his midsection. He smiled at his work, and looked towards the opening in the ship. The land was increasingly shrinking in the distance. He could jump for it, but after looking down at his wrists he realized he wouldn't be able to get far. And only then did the comprehension of his mistake hit him.

"Mierda..." Ramón said, suddenly he took a blow to the back that brought him down to meet the deck of the ship. It felt as though he got stabbed in the spine, and his vertebrae decided it was time to shift within his body. Two pairs of arms grabbed his own, and brought him upright. His gaze was foggy, but he could just barely make out the face of the man in front of him. It was weathered, cold, and angry. Ramón did not cry out as the fist connected with his left cheek, and when another organ shifting blow was given to his stomach. The man who was beating him, grabbed him by his throat, and brought his face close to Ramón's.

"Aprender su lugar, y aprender rápido. No voy a ser tan despiadado próxima vez." Ramón felt his eyes widen, the white man knew the language, and he had threatened him. In any other situation Ramón would have challenged him, but as the fingers continued to close around his windpipe, he held up his hand. The man released his grip, Ramón dropped back to the ground and coughed, attempting to get more air to his lungs. A splatter of blood had hit the deck. He felt someone pull back on his hair; he stared at the angry man in the face, "tendrá que limpiar después." Ramón's head drooped, and he was dragged back towards the hatch, knees scraping against the battered wood.

The first thing that hit him was the absolutely wretched smell. The room reeked of the sea, of bodily fluids, and the stench of death lingered most prominently. Placing a hand to his aching stomach Ramón rose from the floor. He could feel the new bruises forming against the beaten areas of his skin. The small crowd of his people had formed a circle around him, all muttering some words in Spanish. He said "estoy bien hay necesidad de preocuparse, son agradables," sarcasm coated his words. Surprisingly he heard some quiet laughter from the group. At least he could try to keep their spirits up. Looking down at his wrists, he flexed his arms and pulled the chains in opposite directions. No use, for all he knew he would be in these chains forever.

He brought his wrists up and felt along his neck, the skin was tender from the man's astonishingly strong grip, but he would survive, a couple more bruises were almost nothing by now. He dropped his hands again, and the chains rattled against each other. He surveyed their current surroundings. Besides the smell of, well, decaying everything, there were rows of what seemed to be beds made out of old planks from other ships. Portholes lined the walls, and were just barely high enough to see above the waves. It was dark save for one lantern that hung from a post, and whatever moonlight could find its way through the various cracks and crevices in the ceiling. A floating prison cell, much too small for all the people in it.

The hatch from above suddenly swung open, and drowned the cramped room in light. Heavy footsteps thudded down the creaky planks that the stairs were made from. The man who had almost ended his life, and couple of his cronies filed in after him. Ramón moved towards the group, looking for an escape, as not to be singled out and made an example of. He knew it was cowardly, and he was not proud, but he wasn't sure how he could fair with another brutal beating. One of the hands cracked a short whip, and all the murmuring around him came to an abrupt stop. The man paced in front of them, Ramón made sure to keep his eyes on him as he paced in front of them "voy a ser su capitán en este viaje", the people around him seemed just as surprised as he first was to learn that their apparent captain spoke their language. "Espero que haya disfrutado de sus últimos días de libertad" he stopped directly in front of the group, Ramón felt them all move closer together "porque es mío ahora."

The next thing he knew the lot of them were being thrown to the plank beds, chains weaved through various hooks, at both ends. They were lined up like fish in a stand, barely any breathing room between the two people. Ramón looked to his left, an aging man, and to his right, a young woman. He wanted to tell them that everything would be just fine because they looked as though they were staring straight at the devil. But he couldn't do it, Ramón had absolutely no idea what was going to happen to him, to her, or to himself. And that fear continued to fester in his stomach until sleep overtook his body.

The crack of a whip, and a shout awoke him. The sound of chains being pulled back through the metal loops seemed to awaken any stragglers. All of them were pulled to their feet, and barked at, and it wasn't until one of them was shoved up through the hatch did they understand that they were being moved up to the deck. He worked his way into the line, and the man who slept beside him edged in behind. Ramón heard an air seizing cough, and turned to see the man seeming as though he was gasping for air. He placed a chained hand on the man's shoulder "que están bien" the man shook his head, and pushed Ramón away from him.

Ramón blinked a couple times in confusion, the man looked at him, and struggled to make words "muerte". He pushed Ramón away again, and coughed towards the ground. One of the white men grabbed Ramón's arm, and shoved him in the direction of the opening. Still looking back at the man, who had now collapsed to the floor, he ascended the stairs.

Up on deck, the line moved at a steady rate, off to the left he could see people with removed chains rubbing at their wrists. Excitement bubbled inside of him. He was sure that by now the chains had rubbed away most of the skin, and the metal against the new layer only brought pain. He also observed as scrub brushes, buckets, and mops were shoved towards the unchained. Many were shoved to the floor and screamed at until they understood that they were to clean the deck. Ramón stepped forward and held his wrists out to the man with the master key. But just as he was about to put the key into the lock, the captain laid a hand against his crew member's chest, effectively stopping him from continuing. "No es así" he said, Ramón felt the excitement turn to fury, he held back a lash out "las cadenas permanecen." He threw down his permanently chained hands.

"Usted no puede hacer eso." The captain only smirked, and shoved one of the scrub brushes and a bucket into his hands. Ramón juggled them for a moment but kept the items steady.

"Lo siento," the captain said "pero, ¿es usted o yo, que dirige este barco?" He looked Ramón dead in the eye. "O tal vez usted necesita una lección sobre el tema," the captain crushed one fist into the palm of his other hand. Ramón swallowed and shook his head. "Buen chico," at the comment it felt as though every cell in Ramón's body was on fire, fueled by the overwhelming hatred that he possessed for this one man.

A shout sounded behind him, and then the sound of a body hitting the deck. The line parted, and Ramón turned to see the man who had slept next to him, coughing and hacking onto the deck of the ship. The white man who had brought him up stepped up to the captain and whispered something in his ear. The captain walked towards the convulsing man, snatched a pistol from the holster at his hip. Before Ramón could even blink, or say one word, the shot fired off, and the body that had once been racked with coughs fell silent, and lifeless. The captain blew the excess gunpowder smoke from the tip of his pistol, and shoved it back into the holster. He yelled something at two of his crew members; they saluted, and moved to the body. One picked up the arms, and the other the legs, and they hurled the body over the edge of the ship. A splash sounded, and a satisfied smirk crossed the captain's lips. "Enfermedad" he looked at Ramón "siempre es un problema, ¿sabes?"

Ramón was speechless, and he couldn't control the fact that his lower lip had dropped, leaving him staring in disbelief like a dead fish. A shoulder collided with his own as the captain walked past him.

"Rezar a cualquier dios que adoran usted no cumple con la misma suerte" he smiled a sadistic smile, "ahora ve limpiar la sangre." Ramón balled his hands, but moved towards the red stained wood. He set the bucket down, and dropped the brush into the water. Ramón glanced down at the stain, and then looked towards the captain. He looked smug, crossed his arms, and then indicated for Ramón to get down, by pointing with his index finger. Ramón narrowed his eyes, but knelt down, and began scrubbing the wood, the chains around his wrists making the task near impossible. All his fury was powered into his rapid scouring. The red mark was gone in a matter of moments. Ramón smirked to himself, and rose, tossing the brush back into the bucket. Grasping the handle he strolled up to the captain.

"Qué próximo?"

It had been sixty-three days. The hard planks that had served as his bed for the past two months dug into the bones in his back. He stared up at the ceiling, and absent mindedly ran his hand up his stomach and felt his ribs just barely beneath the layer of skin. There were maybe half of his people left. The dead had all departed in different ways, illness, or malnourishment. Ramón did his best to keep those remaining in high spirits, yet with death hanging around as just another passenger, it was only becoming more difficult.

As expected since the first day on board this hell vessel, the times were anything but easy. They were put to work, Ramón's hands always in the chains, from dawn until late at night. Any food they were given was scraps from whatever meal the crew had eaten that day. Fights often broke out between prisoners over a leftover apple core, or even the tiniest bit of chicken skin. Every day he could feel his humanity slipping from him. He moved his chained hands to one side of his face, then the other, feeling the gauntness in his cheeks, and the stubble that hadn't been shaved in two months.

His chains were nearly never removed. The captain ordered them removed every once and awhile, but once the scabs had finally set, they were put back on. The pain was excruciating, but he refused to give the man any satisfaction. So he took them back with a smile. But he could feel himself breaking, and if death didn't get him first, he would surely lose his mind.

Loud footsteps thundered down the stairs. With difficulty Ramón sat up from the planks, rolling his shoulders, and placing his hand into the crook of his neck he looked over at the entrance. Others had swiveled their heads as well, albeit with much less interest than Ramón. He scooted himself to the end of the bed, allowing his legs to dangle off the edge. He clasped his chained hands together, and lowered his head. The slimy voice of the captain overtook the silence that had fallen in their prison.

"Mañana atracamos," Ramón heard his footsteps pacing up and down the planks "hacer lo mejor para estar presentable, no quiere decepcionar a los nuevos propietarios." He felt his eyes widen at the news. He sprung from his bed, doing his best to appear at full strength. Ramón held his head up; the captain merely cocked his head to the side, and let out one harsh laugh. "Mejor que vuelva a sentarse chico." The captain placed his index finger on Ramón's bare chest, and pushed. He collapsed back to the bed, any strength he had was sapped and he was about an intimidating as a puppy. "Tener una buena noche," the captain said, turned on his heel, and retreated back up the stairs.

Ramón didn't realize how heavily he was breathing until he laid a hand against the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He felt the stare of the others on him. Ramón jerked his head from left to right, and they all hurriedly looked anywhere else, or to their laps. He swallowed, and laid himself back down as gently as he could. He was exhausted even from the slightest amount of energy he had spent. He closed his eyes and kept a hand onto his chest feeling himself breath.

Ramón shot up from his bed as soon as sunlight flooded the room. One of the crew members cracked a whip in one of his hands. Others around him stirred, he looked forward only to see the first mate pointing at him. Ramón narrowed his eyes and surveyed him warily; he pointed at him again, and then pointed to his own feet. Ramón rose from the planks and tentatively made his way to the man. He glared straight into the first mate's eyes, but did not make any other move. The first mate rolled his eyes and whistled, all the others were lined up behind him. Ramón glanced around feeling some panic rise in his chest. He looked back once the first mate had snapped his fingers in front of Ramón's face. He pointed at him once again and said only one word "primero."The first mate turned, and one of the other crew hands grasped the middle of Ramón's chains and pulled him up the stairs. He did his best not to cry out as the metal dug into his inflamed skin.

His feet connected with solid ground for the first time in sixty-four days, and it would have been a lot more liberating had he not been about to be sold. White passerbys shot peculiar looks at him; his eyes were much too busy taking in the atmosphere of the new place. The houses were odd, wooden, some stone, and tall. Horses pulled strange looking wooden houses on round things. And the clothes people wore, and even the people for that matter. Ramón shook his head a bit, perhaps this was all just a dream and he'd wake up and be back home. The scars and bruises that covered his skin would disappear, and the infernal chains would have never been a real problem in the first place.

The crew made quick work to move them out of the dock area. Ramón dropped back to the tail end of the group. He looked up and down, and took in every sight his eyes could get. He looked to his left, where a child picked up a stick and threw it to a nearby stray. He looked down at the stone street. And finally, he looked to his right, where a white woman appeared to be purchasing many different types of flowers from a nearby stand. Apparently she sensed his eyes on her, and she turned to look at him. Ramón swung his head the other way; he knew how much trouble someone would get in on the ship if one of the prisoners made eye contact with one of the white men. He looked back in her direction after time had passed, and was surprised to see her walking next to him, albeit a couple steps away as to keep out of the way of the crew, but she was looking at him. She smiled, and he narrowed his eyes at her. He had learned by now that no one was to be trusted, no one. Ramón watched as she bit her lip, and then looked down to the bundle of flowers in her arms. She plucked a deep red one from the various types, and held it out to him. He jerked back from it, and darted his eyes from the blossom to her face. The corner of his mouth picked up in a sneer. The woman only smiled, shook her head a bit, then as discreetly as she could, wrapped one of his chained hands around the steam. She patted his shoulder, said something in the language he did not know, and then disappeared into the nearby crowd.

Ramón paused his walking for a moment and stared at the blossom in his hand. And for the first time, in a long time he felt a smile come to his lips. That was until he was hit in the back with a whip, and yelled at to move. A growl moved to the back of his throat, but he pressed on.

They were herded to a large open area, where a wooden structure had been set in the middle, and a podium stood off to the right. The captain yelled something at the front of their crowd, one of the crew members next to him saluted, grabbed Ramón's arm, and dragged him to the front. He tried his best to fight back, but all attempts were lost, he was so tired. The crew member threw him towards to captain, and Ramón had to make an effort to hang on to that flower in his weak grip. The captain smirked an ugly smirk at him "quiero mi favorito para ser el primero." Ramón glared at him, but allowed himself to be tugged along by his chains to the middle of the wooden scaffolding.

Ramón let his head droop as the captain started speaking rapidly in the language he could not understand, save for a few choice words. He kept his eyes on the flower that was hidden in between his clasped hands. Then suddenly people from the crowd started shouting out words. Ramón picked his head up to see that a bunch of hands had shot up, he looked over to the captain who was pointing out to the masses and, if it was at all possible, speaking even faster.

But suddenly the crowd went silent as one voice rang out. Ramón did his best to search the crowd for the owner of the voice that commanded such quiet. His eyes connected with a white hooded man. The man gave him a small nod, and Ramón returned it. Quick as a snake the man pulled a pistol from his belt, and fired off a shot. Ramón squeezed his eyes shut, but he did not feel any colder, or any warm blood leaving his body. A scream rang out, and he looked over to where the captain was standing. He had fallen face down onto the podium, one hand clutching at the left side of his chest. And Ramón could not have smiled any bigger at that point.

John worked his way through the retreating crowd. Members of the captain's crew came at him in spurts; he cut them down as they came. The only real challenge would have been the captain himself, John smirked to himself, and even that proved to have been false. He approached the line of slaves, they all cowered and shrunk away from him. "Esta bien," he told one of them placing a hand on her shoulder. Grabbing a lock pick from the pouch on his belt, he began going down the line, and removing the shackles from their wrists and ankles. He only nodded as words of thanks spilled from their lips. He silenced their chattering with a hand, they all looked up at him, gratefulness in their eyes "encontrar una forma de viajar al norte. Será más seguro por ahí." John watched as they nodded, and began dispersing off in separate ways. He looked to his left only to see one slave remaining, he stood like a statue on top of the scaffolding. John climbed the steps to meet him.

Ramón jerked his head to the left to see the hooded man ascending the steps. His crowd of people had vanished almost as quickly as the white people had. Now it was only him, and the hooded man. He only hoped he was not there to kill him, at this point there was little Ramón could do to stop him. He looked over as the man clasped a hand onto his bare shoulder. "Usted es libre," the man told him. Ramón nodded.

John watched as the man nodded his head at a slow pace. He seemed much worse for wear than the others. There were deep welts on his back, and his entire body littered was littered with purpling bruises. John could see his ribs plainly underneath the skin. He swallowed and removed another lock pick; he made quick work of removing the chains at the man's wrists. The metal hit the wood with a hard thunk. John recoiled a bit at the sight of his wrists; they were rubbed raw, bloody, and looked to be extremely swollen. "Necesita un medico," John said, inspecting the wounds that covered his body more closely. "Ven y sígueme," John jumped down from the wooden structure, and waited for the man to start following him.

Ramón looked down at his hands. He slowly began moving his hands away from each other until they were as far apart as they could be. He smiled, and a little chuckle escaped him. Ramón looked to the white hooded man, who was motioning for him to follow. He smirked, and jumped from the scaffolding. "Gracias," Ramón said "estoy en deuda." He watched as a smile grew on the hooded man's face, he extended a hand towards him. "Ramón."

John grasped his hand and said "John Pettit." He began walking towards where he could get some help for Ramón's wounds; he looked back only to make sure he was still following him.

He continued to move his hands closer and further away from each other trying to get used to more than merely eight inches of space between his two wrists. He let out an airy laugh, and then looked to the red flower that was still firmly held in his right hand. Ramón smiled if only for a second, before a sudden wave of sickness crashed down on him. He stumbled, and the world around him seemed to be growing darker by the second. He felt his body falling backwards, and all he could think to do was grasp to that flower with all of his life and wait for impact.

John turned back for a moment only to see Ramón looking as though he were about to faint. He watched as he rocked a bit back and forth, then his eyes shut, and he really was falling. "Ramón," John called out, he took running steps back to him, and caught his new friend's arm before he could hit the ground. "Damn it buddy, this is gonna be a lot harder than if you were conscious," John removed his white jacket, and pulled an extra undershirt from one of the pockets. He had planned on dressing him to look more like a citizen later, but the stares they were getting from just him fainting, called for drastic measures. He slipped it over his friend's head. John shifted Ramón so that he would be leaning against his shoulder, "all right, all right, we're good. Come on let's go see Noelle, she'll patch you up jus' fine." John listened as Ramón gurgled out some incoherent spanish words. "That's the spirit," John said and chuckled a bit to himself, he made his way towards Noelle's place of business, Ramón leaning heavily on his body.

"Hey, you ever hear of a brotherhood?"

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Again thanks for reading, and feel free to review.  
This is the last of the guys "intros", next week will be more focused on the story.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey guys even longer chapter this week, kind of intro to some side characters I will be introducing, and focuses more on the character of Ray. **So, there is still a little bit of Spanish in here if you want to open that google translate again.**

I just want to take a second to say a really huge thanks, this story has gotten a lot of hits, though that may not seem evident by the lack of reviews. It doesn't even matter to me, I' just very happy to have people interested in my work. So thank you for choosing to read my story, whether you be from tumblr or just happened to find this while searching for some AH fanfiction.

As said names as have been changed, probably I this point you get it, but just to be safe I'll probably be doing this each chapter:  
**Jack Pattillo is known as John Pettit  
Ray Narvaez Jr. is known as ****Ramón Navas**

Also the reason this is on a Sunday is because I just moved to school this week. My chapters have been pre-written up until now so I am hoping to keep weekly updates, but as school begins I may have to start posting every** two weeks **instead. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I want these to come out as good as they can.

Enjoy, and thank you once again.

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Boston, November 1771

"Noelle," John called out bursting through the front door of Madame DeHaven's brothel, Ramón's left arm was draped across his shoulders. He took large steps, doing his best to keep the body slumped against his frame upright, and prevent any further injuries. He strode up to the small wooden desk that had been pushed up against the stairs. A young woman sat behind it, she had been scribbling something in a black book before she looked up at John.

"Oh, hello John," she said. Her eyes darted to the body that was leaning against his shoulder. She quirked an eyebrow and leaned in towards him "you realize she can't bring back the dead ya know." John rolled his eyes.

"He's not dead, see," John shifted Ramón a little, and he let out a low moan. "Constance, I don't really have time for this right now, where is she?" John watched as Constance contributed an eye roll of her own.

"I'm pretty sure she just got back from the market, she said she needed supplies, and you were too busy to get her some," Constance said adding some annoyance to her tone. "But I'll be the good guy here, and go get her." She rose from her desk.

"Gee thanks," John said. Ramón's head lolled to the right. John felt himself cringe as Constance screamed Noelle's name up the stairs. God, did that girl have a mouth on her.

"Okay, okay I'm coming," he heard Noelle shout from the top of the stairs. She came down the steps as delicately as possible. Her hair had been tied up, and a white cloth mask had been laid across her mouth. She had a white rag in her hands, and she appeared to be cleaning some green color from her palms.

"All right what've we got her-." She stopped her sentence short once her eyes fell on the man at John's shoulder. Noelle moved with surprising quickness towards him. She clasped his chin between her thumb and index finger, and slowly rolled his head from one side to the other. She ran her hands along his stubble covered cheeks, and felt the gauntness in his face. Noelle picked up his head for a moment, and released, only to have it roll back to its previous position. "Oh my God, John what the hell did you do?"

"Nothing, nothing," John shouted back at her. "I was trying to get him here already and he just, he just fainted, I don't know. Can you just help me, I'd like to keep 'im alive." John saw Noelle place fingertips to her forehead, boy was she annoyed.

"Yeah, yeah just bring him upstairs," Noelle said. He nodded at her, grunted and began moving towards the steps. The more she thought about it the more familiar the unconscious man seemed. She caught a flash of color in her peripheral vision. Noelle looked down to see a red rose lying unattended on the floor. She angled her head to the side, and bent down to pick it up. Once obtaining the blossom she inspected it. How odd.

"Hey Noe," Constance said, her friend looked away from the flower she was ogling for a moment. "You gonna go help that guy or not?"

"Oh," Noelle said, and laughed a little bit "right I should go do that shouldn't I?" Constance gave her a very sarcastic looking nod. Noelle sighed, shook her head and smiled at her friend. She then worked her way up the stairs.

Girls who had heard the commotion hugged the wooden walls as John made his way through the hall with Ramón's unconscious body. He paused for a moment in the hallway. Which room was hers again? "Last one on the left," a voice said over his shoulder. John looked back to see Noelle pass him, her hands clasped behind her back, a red rose dangling from her fingers. She turned on her heel upon reaching the end of the hallway, opened the door, and bowed slightly gesturing towards the entrance. John pursed his lips, and shook his head, but moved towards the door nonetheless.

"Of course you have the last goddamn room," John snapped as he threw Ramón down onto a chair in the middle of the room. Noelle merely smiled, and shrugged her shoulders. Readjusting her mask over her face, she entered, and grabbed a box from the desk that was pushed up against the window. Ramón's body sagged in the wooden chair, his chin touching his chest. John squatted down and placed a hand on his shoulder "I know you can't really hear me buddy, but yer in good hands." He smiled at Noelle. John stood up to his full height, and watched as she began taking some tools out from the box she had brought over. "You should check out some of the other stuff too," John said, Noelle shot him a quizzical look. "I found 'im at a slave auction, and being unconscious is not the worst of his problems, trust me."

"All right, all right I get it the guy's hurt," Noelle said, and started shooing John away with her fingers "out, out, you know I can't work with an audience." John stumbled as she pushed her hands against his back moving him out the door. He stuck his foot in between the closing door and the frame. Noelle looked up at him.

"Promise me he'll be all right?" Noelle smirked under her mask, and then nodded. John turned to leave, but stopped to say one last thing "And Noe."

"Hmm?"

"Don't screw him." She quirked an eyebrow, then slammed the door shut. Noelle rolled her eyes, then grabbed a stool from the nearest corner and pulled it up next to her patient's chair. She let out a sigh, and ran a hand through her hair.

"All right, let's wake you up," Noelle said to herself, placed the rose that was in her hand on the table, and began rummaging through the box. It was filled to the brim with silver instruments that she used for stitching, cutting and various other practices. The bottom, however, was bursting with various salves, and liquids used to speed up the healing process, stop a wound from festering, and sometimes attempt to cure an illness in its entirety. Noelle picked up a small vial half-way filled with a fine white powder. Uncorking it she tapped some into a small bottle filled with water. It fell to the bottom, and she swirled it slightly. Noelle wafted the mixture towards herself, and, after a cough or two, held it under her the man's nose.

Ramón woke with a start, his hand immediately flying to his nose to close off any air coming through his nostrils. His eyes darted around the room, it was dimly lit due to the drawn red curtains, and the single lantern hanging on a nail near the door. He jerked his head to the left, and felt his eyes widen when he saw a white woman, holding out a bottle filled with water. Ramón recoiled from her, and fell from his chair to the floor. He groaned, and squeezed his eyes shut as the bruises on his back reacted to the impact.

Noelle's hand flew to her mask covered mouth. She took her skirts in hand, rose from her chair, and walked over to him. Placing her hands on her knees she leaned over him. She pulled the mask down from her face "are you all right?" The man only groaned again in response. She chuckled a little, and then knelt down next to him "I'll take that as a no. Here let me help you." Noelle extended a hand to him.

Ramón opened his eyes, and looked over to where a hand was held out to him. He contorted his face, and batted her hand away. He pushed himself upright, and let out another moan of pain, he looked up and saw the woman staring and him. He reached out a hand to shooed her away with the motion, but she grasped it with her own before he could even comprehend what happened.

"Oh my God," Noelle exclaimed, the man jerked away at the sound of her yell, but she held onto his hand as though it were a lifeline. Upon her grabbing his hand her eyes immediately fell to his rubbed raw wrists. They were nothing short of disgusting, it looked as though they had been gnawed away at, and multiple layers of skin kept trying to grow over each other. Noelle pushed the sleeve of his white shirt up, grasped his one hand with both of hers, and pulled his arm so she could inspect it in the better light. "This is awful," she said, trying to keep her voice level so he would not try to lurch away from her again. Noelle turned his hand over in her own, the underside was no better, and if it was not fixed soon, infection would surely take root. She looked over at him; he seemed to be trying to edge away from her inch by inch. "Now I know why John needed me to help you," she smiled and let out a small laugh "come on, on your feet." She grabbed his other hand in hers, and heaved until he stood.

Ramón stumbled, and quickly placed a hand to his head, rising so fast caused the dizziness to return. "Dios maldita sea," he mumbled out. He looked over as the woman took hold of one of his arms in an attempt to lead him back to the chair. He ripped it away from her, memories of his trek to the slave auction flooding his mind, "No me toque." He took a few steps away.

"I'm sorry, I can't understand you, but look, I'm here to help I promise," Noelle said. She walked towards him again; he still looked a bit dazed from his faint. But as soon as she was close enough to him, he raised a hand at her. Noelle jumped slightly, but stopped in her tracks. She held her hands up in defense, palms flat in his direction "Okay, okay let's just calm down."

Ramón kept his hand raised as he tried his best to comprehend what exactly she was saying. Spending all that time on the ship had allowed him to learn a few words, but she spoke too fast, and most of the words she said were none that he had ever heard before. He watched as she held up her hands in surrender; Ramón lowered his hand so it was below his shoulder.

Noelle watched his actions, keeping a cautious gaze on his hand. There was definitely something familiar about him, she knew she had seen it before when she inspected him when he was nothing but a rag doll leaning against John. She peered at him, and he lowered his hand once again until it was level with his stomach. Noelle took a careful step forward; he only looked her up and down once. Her eyes widened and she snapped her fingers, making the man in front of her raise his hand again. "No, no wait, I saw you today. Yeah you were being lead through the square, I gave you, I gave you," Noelle trailed off, and looking to her tool table where rose was still resting. "Just stay there," she said, and moved around the chair, keeping her eyes on him. His face had scrunched up into a puzzled look, but his hand was still up by his ear. She snatched the red blossom from its place, and moved back towards him. She took a quick breath in and stepped close to him so they were only about a foot and a half apart. Noelle held the flower up to him.

Ramón blinked a few times once the girl appeared in front of him, standing much closer than he would have liked to her to be. But when she held up that flower, and smiled at him. Realization hit him like an ocean wave. The girl from the square, this was her? He lowered his hand, a bit ashamed of himself if he were to be honest. Ramón reached out, and watched as she closed her eyes and flinched. After a few moments she peeked at him out of one of her eyes. He only shook his head back and forth, and plucked the rose from her grasp. A smile lit up her face, and she gestured to chair behind him. Ramón nodded and sat himself back in the chair, and watched as she took a seat on the stool to the left of him. She let out a puff of air, smiled quickly at him, and then placed the white cloth back over her mouth.

Noelle began removing various vials, bottles, and powders from the bottom of her kit. She pulled a small glass jar filled with a yellow-brown liquid, and inverted it in her hand. Popping the top she held it towards his nose for only a moment "it's valerian, helps calm you down." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "But I don't need you fainting again on me."

The fumes from the liquid he was forced to inhale made his nose sting slightly, but he did feel the tenseness in in muscles begin to melt away. He moved his head to look at the hand that was on his shoulder, he then shot her a quick questioning glance. And after a small cough, she removed it and went back to mixing various things on her table together. Ramón looked down at the red flower in his hand, he turned it again, and again, feeling his eyelids get heavy. "Hey," she said, and he turned to look at her, she continued to say something in the language he did not know. At least he could understand one thing she had said so far. Not that it was much use at this point.

She pulled at basin of steaming water out from under the chair he was sitting in. Removing the handkerchief that was tied around her sleeve, she dropped the white cloth in the water."Okay let me see those wrists," Noelle said, and tried to indicate towards them with her head. The man gave her a confused look, but allowed her to roll up the sleeves of his shirt nonetheless. She turned her face away for a moment, trying to work up the courage to look at his hands. The condition that his wrists were in was truly a horrible one. Noelle had only come in contact with so much, not many people came to her for help when there were actual doctors out in the city. She mostly dealt with giving people some type of herb to help their, well, performance for the night, and even then she wasn't paid. It was only when John had asked her to take a look at a knife slash he had gotten did she really see the gruesome side of medicine. But this man's wrists were definitely number one on her "worst cases" list. Noelle balanced the tub in her lap, and gestured for him to give her one of his hands. After some hesitation, their hands were clasped together.

Once the white cloth that had been soaking the water made contact with the exposed tissue of his wrists, his skin exploded with pain. He jumped up from the chair, vertigo taking over his head once again. Ramón backed himself as best he could into the nearest corner. He hissed as he attempted to wipe the remaining water onto the white fabric of his shirt, only causing more pain due to the friction of the cotton onto his skin.

Noelle blinked, and felt her eyes widened. He moved much too quickly for someone who had fainted only an hour ago. But she sighed, stood up, and placed the basin onto her chair. She pulled her mask down as she advanced towards him. Once she got closer, he seemed to ball himself closer into the corner. Noelle rolled her eyes, and placed her hands on her hips "really now. You can survive having your wrists like that for only God knows how long, but as soon as I put something on it that's supposed to help, you react like that." The man kept his hands as close to him as possible. "Ugh," Noelle muttered, and placed a hand to her forehead. Thoughts raced through her head at the speed of light, but one stuck out in her mind. "I don't know your name," Noelle said, she dropped her hand so it met her clothed thigh with a muffled slap. "All right, how about this," she said, waving a hand to try and get his attention, his eyes caught the motion "I know you can't really understand me, but if we exchange names, you'll let me help you, yeah?" She nodded her head, and watched as he mirrored her actions. She clapped her hands "great. Um, give me your hand." Noelle held out her own hand, waving it impatiently. She realized she was probably taking advantage of his innocence to English, but she had to help him, and right now there wasn't much else to do.

He watched the woman's mouth as tried to comprehend one word she said, but got only bits and pieces. And when she nodded her head, he only followed her actions hoping that he was agreeing to something that would get him out of here. Then she stuck a hand out to him. Ramón stared at her palm, he didn't want to give his to her, surely she'd put more of the boiling water onto it. But that didn't matter, he had hesitated and in that second she had snatched his own hand away. Ramón tried his best to wriggle free, but he was still weak from his fainting spell, and whatever she had made him inhale. But she eased her grip after a few moments of his struggling. He felt her grab his chin with two of her fingers so he was forced to look at her. He ceased his efforts to get away once they locked eyes.

Noelle cleared her throat, laid a hand against her upper body, and said "Noelle." She then gestured to him, he flicked his eyes from her hand to her face. "My name," she said, and patted her chest "Noelle."

Ramón cocked his head to the side as he watched her mouth form more words he did not know. She did repeat one thing touching a hand to her every time she said it. "No," he paused "elle?" Her face seemed to light up at this.

"Yes," Noelle said, smiling at him, "now you? Your name." He only stared at her; she laid a hand against her chest once again "Noelle." She moved her palm to his torso. "You are," she trailed off, in an attempt to get him to finish.

Ramón looked down at the white hand on his chest, then back to her face. He picked up his own hand, and set it over hers. "Ramón," he said, then moving their hands together placed them back onto her torso "Noelle?" He heard a small laugh escape her. Noelle cupped his one hand in both of hers.

"Ramón," Noelle said, and looked into his eyes "it's very nice to meet you." She watched as the right corner of his mouth twitched up. "Okay Ramón, will you please let me help you now?" She watched as he nodded, she smiled at him "great." Grasping one of his hands she led him back to the chair. Noelle ran a hand through her hair "we're going to stay here all right, no more moving." She shook her head, and Ramón copied the motion. She again went to the basin, and picked up the rag, this time for him to see.

Ramón observed as she dabbed at his wrists with the white cloth. The water was still scalding, but he kept his mouth firmly sealed. After a minute, his muscles began to relax, and he turned his head to look at her. She seemed very focused on the task she was performing. Ramón felt his mouth twitch into a smile as he watched her work. Noelle suddenly looked up at him, and he inclined his head so as to appear as though he was not watching her. He heard a small laugh from her direction; he looked at her, and smiled.

Noelle smiled back at Ramón, the pulled her cloth mask back over her mouth. Once most of the dead skin had been cleaned away, she moved the basin back to the floor. Looking through her tools once again, she produced a bottle of arnica. Noelle tapped the paste onto her palm, and rubbed it between her two hands. "It's arnica, harmless unless you eat too much," she explained, knowing full well he had no idea what she was saying. She began rubbing it on every inch of the torn flesh could find. She felt him jump under her touch a couple times, but he had gotten surprisingly more cooperative. She finished his left wrist, and looked up at him.

Ramón had been watching Noelle again. The cream she had begun rubbing on his skin was unexpectedly cool, and brought much relief to his inflamed skin. He let out a small sigh, and then once again looked to the red blossom still clutched in his right hand. How he had hung onto it throughout this whole ordeal amazed him, but he was glad to have it. Ramón looked over at her, only to find Noelle looking up at him. She blinked, cleared her throat, and rubbed the remaining residue onto her skirt. Noelle looked back at him, with her mouth open, looking as though she wanted to say something.

"Ramón," he turned his head to look at her at the sound of his name, Noelle swallowed "did you-" she was cut off by the door slamming open.

"Noelle," a whine came from the door as it burst open. She jumped away from Ramón to look at the entrance. Her friend, Constance, had forced her way through the door, skirts in arms. And upon seeing the scene said "oh, am I interrupting something?" Noelle laid a hand against her forehead.

"John was supposed to watching the door." Constance quirked an eyebrow, and jerked a thumb back towards the hall.

"What you mean the lazy sack outside," she asked, rolling her eyes, she then placed her hands on her hips "he's been snoring up a storm for the past hour." Constance walked over to the desk, and removed the earrings from her ears.

"Now Constance be nice," Noelle said, then grumbled out "he does pay us after all." She felt Ramón squeeze her hand, and she looked up at him. He darted his eyes to the side trying to look at Constance, without looking at her. She smiled, and patted the top of his hand. "If you want to make yourself useful, you could hand me those bandages over there," Noelle kept her eyes on Ramón's. She heard Constance release a large groan, but was presented with the bandages, but perhaps more begrudgingly than she would have liked. "Thank you," Noelle said, Constance only waved a dismissive hand towards her. She began by spreading another gracious layer of arnica, and comfrey onto the area. Noelle wound the bandages skillfully around his wrists, making them wrap in between his fingers, and reaching just above the healing skin. "All right," Noelle said, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand "all set." She smiled at him, grabbed her tools, and stood up to return them to her desk.

Ramón inspected the white linen that now surrounded the lower parts of his arms. He could still feel the pastes underneath soothing his irritated skin. Using the chair arms for support, he did his best to stand. He wavered, but ultimately ended upright. "Noelle," he said rather quietly, he cleared throat then said it with a bit more force backing his voice "Noelle."

She turned at the sound of her name. Tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear, she smiled and walked back towards him. She placed her fists onto her hips "well look at you standing up already. Feeling a little better are we? But you should really be rest-" Noelle was cut off when he held a bandaged hand out to her. She felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but placed one of her hands in his.

He lifted her hand up to his mouth, and placed his lips against her skin. "Gracias," he said, and lowered her hand, but kept a firm grip on it "Noelle." Ramón heard her laugh, and then she bowed her head. He turned his head to look at his right hand dangling at his side, the rose still caught between his fingers. Ramón held it up to her face, her eyes went cross eyed to look at it. She blinked, but wrapped her free hand around the stem. She flashed him a smile.

"Thank you," Noelle said, and brought the rose up to her nose. She then looked down at their intertwined hands, and laughed curtly. "Um, I-," she started before for a second time that night John Pettit burst through a door. "Seriously," she said exasperated "again?"

"You done in 'ere yet," John said, and let out a massive yawn. John tilted his head to the side, and raised an eyebrow at the scene in front of him. Noticing this, Noelle dropped Ramón's hand, and hid the flower behind her back. She faced towards John, while Ramón continued to stare at her, seeming confused by her actions.

"Actually we just," Noelle's voice came out rather high-pitched, she cleared her throat "actually we just finished up." She watched as John folded his arms, pursed his lips, and kept that eyebrow firmly raised. "What," she shrugged her shoulders making sure to keep the flower hidden behind her back.

"Nothing, nothing," John said holding up his hands. "So how is he," he said, and walked over to clasp a hand onto Ramón's shoulder. "He gonna make it?"

"Oh yeah, he'll be fine," Noelle grabbed the remaining bandages from her table. "Just make sure you change them when they get dirty, and if he starts to feel any pain, or it looks like it's starting to get irritated, use some of this." She capped the arnica and comfrey, and held the items out of John. He grabbed them from her. "You mentioned other injuries. For bruises and scars, this should help," she grabbed a vial of horsetail salve, and added it to John's overflowing hands. "You know I barely use any of this stuff anyway, the clientele here don't usually need it." Noelle crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "By the way if you plan on feeding him, which I would recommend, I suggest bread and water in small amounts, otherwise it won't be pretty. His stomach has to get used to food again, and shoving an entire chicken in his mouth won't be helping his as much as you'd think." After saying this Noelle patted John's stomach, he scowled at her.

John juggled the various items, then shoved them into Ramón's unsuspecting arms. He moved a hand to the coin purse hanging from his belt. "Okay what do I owe you," he said. Noelle waved a hand.

"Don't worry about it," she said, "it's been slow anyway. God, can't one of you guys get into a knife fight or something?" Noelle laughed, and punched John's arm. John smiled.

"All right, thanks Noe," John said "yer a life saver. Literally, I suppose." That earned him another laugh from her, pretty good by his standards. "Let's get going Ramón," John said, then realized that he had tried to speak English to him "uh, I mean, vamos Ramón." John began moving towards the door, Ramón making little effort to keep up with him, due to the fact that he was looking back at Noelle every few seconds.

"Hey wait a second," Noelle said, rage settling in her chest "You can speak Spanish? Do you realize how much easier this would have been were you here? And you spent the time sleeping?" Noelle advanced towards the two of them.

"Uh oh, vamos Ramón, vamos," John said starting to run.

Noelle leaned out the door, to see the two of them running down the hall. Well, John running, and Ramón shuffling along after him. "John Pettit, I am going to kill you," she yelled. Fuming, Noelle turned back to the room. She ripped the mask from her neck and threw it to the ground "Ugh the nerve of that guy, I mean really." She looked towards Constance for some confirmation.

Constance had been idly inspecting her nails "hm, oh yeah how dare he." She bit a piece off of the nail on her index finger. "So when's the Spaniard going to make another appearance here," she said, and raised an eyebrow "and I'm not talking about for medical treatment." Constance ducked as an empty glass bottle was thrown at her head. She held up her hands in mock surrender "well hey I'm just askin'."

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I hope you liked the characters I have written in, they won't be as focused on as the guys, but will definitely make some more appearances in the future.

Review if you wish, thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Hey guys!  
Like I said a couple weeks ago with school starting up, and me having to write the chapters out in full now, it will take me longer than normal to post.  
So yes, I'd say about two weeks for every chapter now, unless something comes up.

**As in every chapter:**  
**Jack Pattillo is known as John Pettit**

**Gavin Free is known as Gabriel Frer**

**Michael Jones is known as Malcolm Johnston**

**Geoff Ramsey is known as George Ransom**

**Ray Narvaez is known as Ramón Navas**

This chapter is shorter than the previous ones, but I hope you all like it just as much, it's the first time the guys are all together!  
Ray's character is still speaking Spanish for now, it won't last much longer, but still need that google translate.

Thanks for sticking with me, even though posting will be slower now.  
Love you guys!

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Boston Harbor, Brotherhood Bureau, November 1771

The old shipping warehouse by the harbor had a tendency to creak very loudly, especially in the morning. So when Gabriel heard a distinctive man yell, "Fuck, are you serious? I'm trying to fucking sleep!" That was his own wake up call. Throwing back the heavy sheet from his body, Gabriel stretched his muscles, and cracked his neck from side to side. When he first joined the brotherhood, John hadn't been lying when he called Gabriel scrawny, weak, and other such words because, well, he was. But after two years of the intense training he had been put through, lean muscles corded their way under his skin, his strength, and speed improved tenfold, and, if he may be so bold to say, he looked rather good.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he scooped up a white cotton shirt from the dresser nearby. He stood up, rubbing away any of the dried drool that caked onto his face the night before with the back of his palm. Gabriel felt the stubble brush against his skin, he needed a shave. Just because he spent most of his time with John, didn't mean he wanted to look like him. Pulling on a pair of trousers he had discarded from the night before, he exited the room.

Their house of operations looked to be a huge eyesore from the outside, but the inside was a very different story. Over the past years John, and Gabriel put a lot of hard work into making the place habitable. It would always be a work in progress, there were still some patches in the ceiling to be made, walls needed to be gutted of rotted wood, and there was of course the incessant creaking whenever the wind blew. Gabriel heard a pair of loud stomping footsteps coming down the hall, old boards contributing to the squeaking of the warehouse. He watched as Malcolm turned the corner just across him. After four months of living in the same building with him, Gabriel finally understood why most people were afraid of the former blacksmith. His temper and rage was immeasurable on any scale. And, unfortunately for him, it seemed Malcolm liked to use him as an outlet.

"Good morning, Malcolm," Gabriel said as he passed, holding up a hand in greeting. Malcolm stopped in his tracks, and turned slowly. He could see the absolute disgust displayed on the freckled man's face. Dark circles had formed beneath his eyes, and opposite to Gabriel's cheery smile, there was a deep, deep frown. Malcolm proudly presented him with his middle finger, whispered a nice "Fuck off." Then trudged his way down the steps.

John and George had been talking throughout most of the morning. With them two being the oldest in the group, they could really only converse to each other on most matters. The younger ones were much too, inexperienced. They both turned their heads upon hearing the sound of feet shuffling down the stairs. And the infamous whine of one brit's voice.

"But why do you always have to be such an arse in the morning Malcolm?"

"Maybe 'cause I'm fucking tired you prick," Malcolm yelled back.

John turned from his sitting position "Would the both of you kindly shut the hell up. I just brought the new guy here last night, and he's still sleeping." He looked over to the floor where Ramón had practically passed out in front of the fireplace.

After exchanging a look with each other, Malcolm and Gabriel scurried to the back of the large chair, and peeked over John's shoulder at the new guy. "Damn, he looks like shit," Malcolm whispered. George shot him a look, and Malcolm looked to his feet mumbling out "Well he does."

"Yeah, well I'd like to see you get off a slave ship after two months and not look like shit." John popped his pipe in his mouth, started puffing away, and flipped the newspaper open on his lap. He heard George chuckle, while Gabriel and Malcolm began exchanging some words about the new addition in hushed voices. As much as they seemed to fight, and as much as they didn't like to show it, John knew the two of them had become pretty great friends over the past months. They would normally spar together, or run courses together. Not to mention the countless times they've raced the rooftops,Gabriel usually beating Malcolm, and Malcolm dangling Gabriel off the edge by an ankle when he became too cocky after winning. John smiled at the memories.

"Eh George, init a little too early for the drink," Gabriel asked, as George lifted a mug of ale to his lips once more.

"Perhaps, but it's never too early for you to shut your goddamn mouth," and with a holler from Malcolm, and a satisfied smirk, George took another gulp.

Ramón groaned at the sound of a whooping call. He felt ridiculously sore and groggy from the day before, and the splintering floorboards underneath his back wasn't helping much for the pain he was already in. "Dios mio," he whispered, lifting his head to look towards the dead coals within the cobblestone fireplace. Had he really slept here? Had he really trusted the man, John was it, that he had met only hours after he had come to this new place? And had he really seen a doctor? Ramón looked at his wrists, to see soiled white wraps covering the wounds he had sustained. He smiled for a moment, before turning his back to the fireplace to the open room. He was surprised to see three sets of eyes immediately focus onto him, even the man who currently was in a headlock looked towards him. He watched as the newspaper dropped from John's view.

"Buenos dÍas, Ramón," John smiled at him. Although he may not look it to the other guys, but Ramón looked ten times better from when he saw him the day before. John leaned forward in his chair, "¿Cómo se siente?" He heard the thump of a body as Malcolm dropped Gabriel from the crook of his elbow, then the bickering that followed. John set his jaw "can you guys hop off each other for one minute, I gotta see if he's all right." He watched them stop hitting each other mid punch, Gabriel obediently stepped away. Malcolm, however, delivered a solid punch to Gabriel's arm, and pulled a very satisfied smile. Gabriel let out a squawk of pain in response, scowled, but didn't offer his own attack.

Ramón let out a snort of laughter after watching the two beat of each other. Standing up from the bundle of blanket he had been wrapped in, he moved himself every which way. Stretching whatever he could. "Mejor. Mucho mejor. Pero necesito estos vendajes cambiados," he said, holding out his wrists to present the blood spotted bandages. John nodded, stood and moved to a dresser.

Rummaging through the top drawer, he removed the items that Noelle had given him the day before. "Jesus Christ," he said as he continued to pluck vials from the drawer "Noelle must actually give a damn about this kid." He dropped the bundle in his arms onto a nearby table then turned to Ramón "Retire los antiguos, y quitarse la camisa. Tengo que comprobar tu espalda." After a taken aback look, he complied and removed the cotton from his torso.

"Woah, woah," were the shouts heard from Malcolm "if I knew this is the stuff that would be happening, I would've denied your offer all those months ago." John shot him a disapproving quick look.

"Do you want tah change his bandages," John sighed out; Malcolm's response was a scrunch of the nose, and a quick shake of the head. "Then shut it," John tapped some of the salve out onto his hands, and started to apply it to the scars and slices on Ramón's back. "I have to admit this was not high on my list of things to do today," he mumbled to himself. He heard the faint, but undeniable chuckle of George. "Bien, ahora los brazos," he said, and Ramón obliged. He started unwinding the bandages that Noelle had placed; they fell to the ground, stained with blood spots. John heard Gabriel make a noise of disgust, then Malcolm call him a name, John rolled his eyes. The state of Ramón's wrists were in ridiculously better shape than the day before. The dead skin had all been stripped away. There was some slight bleeding, and pus, but they looked to be healing just fine. "Noelle, I don't know how you do it," John said putting some more of the salve on the areas, and replacing the bandages. "Bien, haya terminado."

Ramón tensed the muscles of his forearms under the bandages, there weren't nearly as well wrapped as yesterday, but they would do. He observed his surroundings once again. John had started conversing with the other older gentleman, and two younger guys had started beating on each other as soon as John's back was turned. He wandered over to where they were punching each other, and cocked his head to the side, like a confused child. The curly haired one delivered a particularly hard jab to the other's upper arm, to which he whined out in pain. Ramón smirked and punched the other arm almost as hard, and he let out another wail of pain. The curly haired one let out a fit of laughter, and clapped a hand onto Ramón's shoulder as to keep upright. He winced, but eventually joined in.

John smiled at the three, though he was sure that Ramón had no clue as to why they were all laughing. "Hey," George said, and took another swig before speaking again "should probably get on with this huh?" John nodded at him, and took a solid stance in front of the fireplace.

He folded his arms over each other, and gave a quick stroke of his beard. "All right children settle down." John watched as Gabriel hesitantly moved back towards the other two, Malcolm responded by smacking him on the back, and the group took to laughing again. He rolled his eyes, and looked to George, who only shrugged and finished off his drink. The three boys eventually grabbed chairs from the table and sat in line with George. "Thanks guys that only took half the time I actually needed," John said, and at this Gabriel slid down in his chair. Malcolm only rolled his eyes, while Ramón stared blankly ahead. John sighed and touched two fingers to his forehead. He looked to Ramón "Te lo diré más tarde." Ramón slowly nodded his head.

"Okay everyone, I suppose I can officially welcome you all to the Boston Brotherhood," John said, clasping his hands together. Gabriel started an enthusiastic clap, but after no one joined it, let it die down. John rolled his eyes. "You have been chosen because you all possess certain skills I 'ave needed for a very long time." To this Malcolm made a face, but John ignored it and pressed on. " As I'm sure all of you know, the British have gotten out of hand with their rule, and war is starting tah be threatened. I am the Master Assassin of this branch, but I answer to a much higher power out in New York." John started to pace back and forth, and felt their eyes all following him. "We handle the Boston area, obviously, we're to collect information on British movement patterns, destroy plans, assassinate high ranking officers." At the mention of this he could see George tense out of the corner of his eye. "I also have the power tah send ya out on missions to other cities, though I do plan on keeping you here most of the time, as we are a very small branch, and a lot can happen 'ere." John stopped his pacing, and scanned the men in front of him. Gabriel had heard this all before so he was idly playing with the dangling string on the front of his shirt. While both George, and Malcolm seemed to be listening intently, Ramón sat there confusion spread across his face.

At this point Ramón hated not being able to understand couldn't understand the slave traders, he couldn't understand the Noelle girl, and now it looked as though John was saying important things, and he couldn't understand that. He needed to learn the language, if he was going to survive here. Which he planned on doing.

"Excuse me," George said "but I was promised revenge on whomever I wanted." Over the months, George still had dreams about the night when all his fellow soldiers were massacred. He still saw he treacherous colonel's face, and still heard his jeering laughter. Even now with these thoughts, he clenched his fists. John walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"And you shall, my friend," John said, and patted George's shoulder "all in due time." He lowered the white hood from his head, and took a seat in front of them all. "We're all part of something a lot bigger than us now, and I hope you're all ready because there's no turning back."

"Hell no there isn't," Malcolm said jumping up from his chair. "Time to teach that British scum who they're messing with," he shouted. Gabriel jumped up next to him.

"Yeah," he said "wait, wot?" The four men joined together in a laugh at Gabriel's expense, Ramon waiting until everyone else had started.

"Okay, okay," John held up his hands "Gabriel, Malcolm I have a mission for you." The two boys stopped poking at each other, and snapped forward to listen to him. "I need you two to head to New York, according to our sources there's going to be some British enlisting going on. I need you two to start a riot, and make sure no one gets the chance to sign up. Try not to kill too many, and keep the attention away from yourselves."

"Oh hell yeah, we got this John," Malcolm said with the amount of enthusiasm no one would really expect from him.

"Good, I expect you to leave tonight, so get packing, and try to get some training in before you leave." With that Malcolm and Gabriel gave small salutes, and broke away to go up the stairs. But not before Malcolm had shouted out "Race ya", and shoved Gabriel out of the way.

"Eh, get back here ya little git!"

John turned back to the two remaining men, Ramón seemed to still be just as confused as before. He slid a chair in front of him "usted tendrá que aprender Inglés." To John's surprise Ramón smiled, and nodded his head excitedly. "Bueno, voy a empezar a enseñar de inmediato y vamos a hacer un poco de entrenamiento si está a la altura," John said. Ramón rose from the chair, and started moving towards the stairs that the other boys had disappeared up. "Hay ropa en su habitación, la última puerta a la derecha."

"Okay," Ramón stuttered out. He smiled, and moved as quickly as he could up the steps.

John let out a sigh "those boys will be the death of me." George chuckled next to him, and stood from his chair, pouring himself another drink.

"Maybe, but what we're doing is good, we'll be free of those British fuckers sooner than we know it," George said, adding another glass to his hand and handing it to John. He lifted his glass "To the Brotherhood, right?" John smiled and rose his glass as well. They slammed them against each other, and after a laugh, George made his own way up the stairs.

John sighed again, and pulled the hood on to the top of his head. He took a quick gulp of the drink in his hand, then set it down on the wooden table, and looked to the dead embers of the fire. "I just hope you all are ready for more than what you signed up for," John said to the empty room. His gaze drifted to the front door of the house. "Really ready."

* * *

Thanks for reading, and feel free to review.  
Again, expect another chapter in two weeks on either Saturday or Sunday.

Next chapter's going to be about the Team Nice Dynamite boys, hope you're excited!


	7. Chapter 7

So how many of you thought I forgot about ya?

Let me start off by saying I am so so sorry I am a week late. A lot of stuff came up the past weeks, and my editor and I have to work around eachother's schedules, so it all got very complicated. But here it finally is, I'm sure you were all very excited to get a Team Nice Dynamite centric chapter. I hope I don't disappoint! One of my longest chapters because you all definitely deserve it for having to wait a week longer.

I'm really hoping to keep up with my two week plan, and I'm definitely going to try harder. Thanks so much for sticking with me!

This chapter also has breaks in it to represent time passing, I don't normally like to do that, but I definitely wanted to get the entire TND story into one chapter. So just a head's up for when the lines show up.

**Gavin Free is known as Gabriel Frer**

**Michael Jones is known as Malcolm Johnston**

* * *

Boston, Brotherhood Bureau, November 1771

"Malcolm," Gabriel said rapping on the wooden door for what felt like the thousandth time. "Malcolm, John said we have to go." Silence was his only answer. "Come on we're supposed to get some training in before we leave, and I know it doesn't take you this long to get your things together." Again silence. Gabriel rolled his eyes, and shoved the door open with his shoulder. "Wot are ya doing," Gabriel said, but Malcolm's eyes were closed. He had his sheets wrapped around him as if he were a cocoon, and Gabriel could hear him mumbling some obscenities. Gabriel looked over to the corner of the room, where Malcolm had haphazardly thrown clothes, weapons, and maps into a pile. He rolled his eyes, walked up to the bed, and pushed Malcolm over the edge. His body hit the ground with a hard thump. A livid Malcolm rose from the floor, the sheet hanging off of the top his head. Gabriel swore he heard him growl.

"What," Malcolm paused, and grabbed the sheet, ripping it from the top of his head "the flying fuck." He balled his fists in pure fury.

"N-Now," Gabriel stuttered out "now, Malcolm." He started backing towards the door he had barged through. Malcolm met each one his steps back, with his own step forward. "Let's just be reasonable, John said we should get training in, and we're supposed to leave tonight," Gabriel held his hands out in front of him, for defense. Malcolm was getting close enough that Gabriel could see each freckle on his cheeks. Gabriel's back bumped against a wall. Malcolm advanced on him, like a predator on prey.

"Yeah, I know," Malcolm said, surprising Gabriel by having a smile come to his face. To offset this, however, Malcolm delivered a hard punch to Gabriel's stomach. He heard the air be released from his lungs. "Just don't fucking wake me up like that ever again," Malcolm said, stalked back into the room, and slammed the door behind him.

"All right, meet you in the training yard in ten minutes," Gabriel wheezed out, clutching at his stomach, and sliding down the wall. "Bastard got me good." Malcolm's door swung open again.

"What'd you call me?"

Gabriel sprung up from his slumped position "Nothing, nothing." Malcolm closed his door behind him.

"Oh no," Malcolm said, "I'm sure I heard something." The two stared at each other for a couple moments, before Gabriel went tearing down the stairs. "Hey get back here!" Malcolm said chasing after him his fist in the air "I'm gonna knock those goddamn teeth right out of your mouth!"

As Gabriel rounded the corner, George grabbed the back of his shirt. "Where you going buddy?" George heard the undeniable stomps of Malcolm echoing from the stairs. Gabriel started to struggle against his firm grip on his shirt.

Malcolm jumped the last three steps; he hit the floor, and ran straight for Gabriel until George grabbed the back of his shirt as well. Malcolm struggled much more against his grip.

George held the two younger men at arms length from each other; Malcolm kept swinging his fists furiously in an attempt to hit Gabriel. "You two realize I'm not nearly drunk enough to deal with this shit on a daily basis." George was strong enough as it was from his training in the army, and his training with John, but he could only hold on to two younger guys for so long. "John asked you two to train," George started walking the boys to the back door. He kicked it open, and shoved them both out into the space that he, Gabriel, and John had cleared for weapon training. "So do it," George moved back to the doorway, he popped his head around the corner before shutting it " and try not to kill each other."

"Malcolm, you know I'm better at this than you, I've been doing this for two years," Gabriel said, grabbing a sword from one of the racks on the edge of the training circle.

"I made these swords," Malcolm said, then expertly flipped the sword from one hand to another "I know I can beat you at this."

"Okay, okay." Gabriel admitted, and started to sidestep around the arena, Malcolm copied his actions "Swords, then rooftop race?"

"Sounds good to me," Malcolm agreed, and lunged the tip of his sword forward. Gabriel blocked quickly. They both knew that Malcolm was easily better at the training that involved brute strength, and swordplay, while Gabriel was good with running, and rooftop actions. However, they were both horrible with guns, granted they had been trying to learn, but still George, and John had the upper hand in shooting.

Gabriel made a quick swipe at Malcolm's legs; he jumped, and slammed his foot onto the end of Gabriel's sword. The british man was hunched in an awkward position, his hand still clasped around the hilt of the sword that was pinned under Malcolm's foot. Malcolm positioned the blade on Gabriel's neck. "This one's mine."

"I give, I give," Gabriel said, releasing his hands, and holding them up in surrender. He watched as Malcolm smirked, and removed the blade from his neck. He rose from the ground, unsheathing his hidden blade as quietly as he could. Gabriel let out a yell, and knocked his short blade against the sword.

Malcolm grabbed the sword with his other hand to keep it from being knocked from his grasp. He could feel the metal waver against Gabriel's powerful hit. He looked up from his hold on the sword to see Gabriel had advanced on him.

"'Ello there," Gabriel smirked, and grabbed Malcolm's right arm, jabbing his elbow into the crook. Malcolm let out a shout of protest. The sword dropped to the ground, and Malcolm grabbed his arm in pain. Gabriel snaked his way around him, grabbed the injured arm, and pulled it behind his back. He moved his hidden blade close to Malcolm's throat. "You give?"

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "Not even close," Malcolm said, and stomped down onto one of Gabriel's feet. He wailed in pain, and Malcolm ducked down under the blade, he saw a couple trimmings of hair fall in front of his eyes as the front of his curls hit the sharpness of Gabriel's edge. Malcolm swung his leg around, and knocked Gabriel's feet out from under him. He stomped a foot down onto the blade attached to Gabriel's forearm.

Gabriel's back hit the dirt ground, he groaned, and then let out a cough. He watched as Malcolm's form towered over him.

"Two years didn't do shit," Malcolm said, and laughed. He stuck his hand out to Gabriel. "Come on buddy."

Gabriel smiled, grasped Malcolm's forearm, and heaved himself up. "All right, all right," he said shoving the sword back into its spot "so maybe I'm not the best with sword, but you know I can kick your sorry American ass at free running."

"Hey, I've been working on it," Malcolm said, hiding the whine in his voice.

"Wot you say to a race then? Here to the chapel?"

"You're on."

Gabriel sprinted off to the roof of the bureau house, Malcolm close on his heels. He took hold of the doorframe, and pulled himself upwards, grasping onto the window that was above it. He climbed the roof quickly, and looked over the edge to see Malcolm still on the ground, looking to be planning out a route. "Just gotta go for it Malcolm," he called down to him, Gabriel took a seat at the edge of the roof. He watched as Malcolm continued to survey the building, then he finally backed up, and ran straight at it. Gabriel watched as he ran up the side and his fingers grasped the window. Malcolm shimmied his way up, and grabbed hold of the next window, taking his time to reach the top. "Eh not bad." Gabriel said, once Malcolm stood on the roof, Gabriel rose as well. "But, I coulda been there an' back before you got up here."

"Shut up, and count down before I push you off." Malcolm said, positioning himself to start running.

Gabriel placed a hand just above his eyes, looking around the area, trying to make sure there weren't too many people around. The last thing they needed was any unwanted attention. "Let's try and keep from the square," he said, adjusting his body for optimal speed.

"No, really?" Malcolm said sarcastically "I was just gonna run up to the soldiers and start yelling about how we're part of a group who's plotting to overthrow British rule, shut it you idiot." Gabriel shot him a look, and rolled his eyes.

"Three, two," Gabriel started; he adjusted his view, trying to plot out the shortest way to get from here to the chapel. "One, go!" He immediately took off, not even thinking before he jumped from the roof. He landed onto the next one with a soft thud, some of the shingles shifting slightly. He could feel his heart pumping, and adrenaline filling his body as he kept moving. Free running would always be Gabriel's favorite part of being an assassin, not only because he was good at it, and he was very good, but because of the amount of freedom you were able to have. He moved to the edge of the roof where a beam was sticking out, he jumped for it and went sailing through the air. Gabriel hit the next building, and took grip on one of the windows, using hand over hand motions he reached the next top with ease. He stood, and looked back, seeing Malcolm still a roof or two back. Gabriel cupped his hands around his mouth "Better get moving ya ninny, I'm almost halfway there." Gabriel turned on his heels, and strutted towards his next jump. That was until he heard some shingles move behind him.

Malcolm dusted off his hands. He laughed at the expression on Gabriel's face. "Told you I've been practicing." He aligned himself up at Gabriel's side. "Why don't I give you a head start," Malcolm asked him, stretching his arm across his body.

Gabriel swallowed, but sprinted towards the edge. He jumped down, and curved his body into an arc, rocketing towards the ground below. A haystack was piled neatly into the alleyway below; Gabriel directed his body towards it. He landed, the soft hay absorbing all of his momentum. He popped out, picking lose strands off of his body, and he looked towards the roof where Malcolm stood on the edge looking a little dumbfounded. Gabriel smirked to himself, saluted towards the man, and exited the alley. He kept his head down while navigating the street, a group of red coats passed by him without so much as a second glance. He cut his way through the crowds with ease, moving as though he were a shadow. He ducked down another alley, and started scaling the wall of the building. He swung himself onto the roof, and looked at his surroundings. He could see the chapel only a few roofs away, but Malcolm was nowhere to be found. Gabriel shrugged, and directed himself towards the chapel, making ease of the connected roofs that would take him there.

Gabriel stuck out a finger, and tapped the wooden dome that adorned the top of the chapel. "Malcolm, I won, where are ya?"

"Uh Gabriel," Malcolm's voice called from the other side of the building. Gabriel stuck his hands in his jacket, and moved to where he heard the voice. He glanced down over the edge of the roof. Only to see Malcolm hanging from a window not far below, Gabriel squatted down.

"How'd ya get over there?"

Malcolm shifted his fingers. He had been stuck on this window frame for a couple minutes, only after he had scaled the entire side, did he realize there was no way up further, or over. So there he hung, waiting for Gabriel to arrive, and gloat in his face. "You know I technically won." he said.

"I don't think so." Gabriel moved so he could lie on his stomach, and reach down to Malcolm "Alright grab my hand, I'll pull ya up." After an annoyed look, Malcolm grasped his forearm. Gabriel heaved, until Malcolm flopped down onto the roof.

"Thanks." Malcolm said, rising, and dusting the dirt from his shirt.

"Don't mention it." Gabriel lounged back on his hands, facing the setting sun. "We should probably get going, we'd be better off moving late a night," he said, and looked over his shoulder at Malcolm, who just finished tapping the wooden dome of the chapel. "New York's three days away you know."

"Okay, I'm not the one sitting around like an ass," Malcolm said, and walked towards the opposite side of the roof. He stood at the edge, and peered down to see a cart full of hay at the bottom. Glancing behind him, he backed up at couple steps, then went full force running towards the edge. He tried to mimic Gabriel's actions from before, making his body move more in an arc like shape, and putting his hands out in front as though he were diving into water. He hit the hay and found it to be surprisingly absorbent of that much force. Malcolm wormed his way out, only to see Gabriel hit it seconds later.

"Not bad, your in air form could use a little work though." Gabriel said, after brushing some loose strands of hay off his jacket.

Malcolm placed his palm on Gabriel's face, and shoved him back into the pile. "Shut up." he said, already working his way back towards the bureau.

"But Malcolm," he whined, still tangled in the hay.

Malcolm started walking backwards, "Come on, gotta get going. After all New York is three days away."

"What a prick," Gabriel mumbled to himself.

* * *

"You ever been to New York?" Gabriel finally asked on their last day of travel. Just like he had said, it had taken them three days on horseback, and now the two had set up camp just on the outskirts of the city. Their days of travel were nothing exciting, he was actually surprised that they encountered no soldiers along the paths. But he wasn't disappointed, they'd get plenty of action within the city itself soon enough.

Malcolm halted running a sharpening stone along the edge of his blade. "New York?" he repeated "Hell I ain't ever been out of Boston square."

"Why's that," Gabriel questioned, turning from his laid back position, to look at Malcolm. Malcolm shrugged.

"Never had a reason to leave." He continued running the stone along the edge.

"Why?"

"You know how annoying your voice gets after a long fucking time," Malcolm said frustrated. He watched as Gabriel pouted. Malcolm only rolled his eyes. "Why do you think I never left?"

Gabriel searched his mind for answer. As close as he, and Malcolm had gotten over this time, he realized he knew almost nothing about him. Only that he had been a blacksmith for a long time. "Something to do with that blacksmith stand, then?" A single laugh from Malcolm pierced the air.

"If that place was the only reason, I woulda burned it down," Malcolm said, and tossed the rock over his shoulder. He poked at their dying fire with the tip of his sword. "No," he said "it was a lot more than that." He glanced over at Gabriel, who seemed to scoot closer to him, and look to him with eager eyes. Malcolm shot him a look. "You are one weird little fucker you know that?" Gabriel shrugged.

"So I've been told. Then what kept you in Boston?" Gabriel cocked his head to the right. He really did want to know more about his friend. And he would pry it out of him if that's what it took. He continually poked at Malcolm's arm.

Malcolm rolled his eyes again, and gritted his teeth. "All right, fucking quit it," Malcolm yelled hitting Gabriel's hand away from his arm. "Fine, I'll tell you, you happy?" Gabriel smiled, and nodded. Malcolm sighed, and looked at the dead embers in the fire. "I was a street kid, okay?" He looked over and saw Gabriel's eyes widen. Malcolm laughed, "You're really surprised by this?"

Gabriel nodded his head. He didn't know a lot about all of the guys now that he thought about. Hell, he didn't even know that much about John. But he never really expected Malcolm to have been an orphan. "Yes, I guess surprised is the best word for it, mind telling me how it happened?"

"That's something I would like to know too," Malcolm sighed. "All I do know, is one day my parents were there, the next they were gone, and I was begging on the streets." He poked the fire again, trying to make sure the last of the embers didn't go out. "It was like that for a couple years, I raided the trash for food, and all that other shit you always see. Until the guy who owned that stand before me offered me a job. It was basically a slave job, didn't even get paid, but he let me live with his family, gave me two meals a day." Malcolm shrugged "I guess I shouldn't complain, not everyone is as lucky as I was." He looked at Gabriel from the corner of his eyes. "I thought about it, picking up and going somewhere else, but Boston was the only place I knew, I barely had any money, and-" he paused, "and I was scared I'd end up on the streets again." He faced Gabriel now. "Oh don't give me those fucking pity eyes."

"Wot, I'm not, I swear," Gabriel tried to play it off by looking up at the sky. Malcolm punched him hard in the arm. "Ow!" Gabriel whined out, and started rubbing the afflicted area. "Now, I guess I know why you're such an arse," he said, and flinched waiting for the next hit.

"Yeah I guess you do."

Gabriel opened his eyes, and looked at Malcolm surprised. He saw Malcolm drawing lines in the dirt with a stick. "Well I didn't mean it like that."

Malcolm looked over and smiled at him "I know you didn't buddy." He hadn't felt this vulnerable since the day he joined the brotherhood. "I just wish I knew why," Malcolm hadn't realized he cracked the stick in half until one piece was in each hand. He tossed the pieces over his shoulder, "Why they left."

Gabriel tried his best to read his friend, but naturally Malcolm was just a guarded person. He settled for clasping a hand onto his shoulder. "Well hey," Gabriel started "I'm glad they left or we never would have been friends."

"We're more than friends Gabriel," Malcolm said, putting his arm around him "we're brothers." He smiled at Gabriel, and he smiled back.

Gabriel smacked him on the back "Come on, let's get to sleep, got a big day tomorrow." He laid down, and turned himself to face the city.

* * *

Malcolm awoke at the crack of dawn. He had been huddled in a heap of clothes and furs they had brought with them. November wasn't the most forgiving month for travel. He breathed out and his breath turned visible in the air. He surveyed the area quickly, no one appeared to be around save for himself, Gabriel, and their two horses, who stood tethered to a nearby tree. He stood up from the pile he had slept in, stretched, and then wandered over to the horses. "Hey there Hidalgo," he patted the horse on the nose, it nudged his palm. He laughed "Hungry huh?" Moving one of the packs they had attached to his body, he produced a carrot, and held it out to his horse. He promptly chomped down on it. Malcolm smiled, and rummaged through the packs once again. Pulling his brown jacket from it, he slipped it on quickly. He turned back around and looked at Gabriel's form, his breathing even as he slept. Malcolm rolled his eyes, and stomped over. "Hey Gabriel," he said loudly, rolling him over with his foot "wake up."

Gabriel stirred after he went face first into the dirt. He wiped the soil from his face, with a disgusted noise, he turned and looked up at Malcolm, who was already sporting his assassin's uniform. "Was that really necessary?"

"No, but it was payback." Malcolm pulled the brown hood onto the top of his head, and readjusted his sword belt around his hips. He moved his pistol to the holster on the other side. "You've got the throwing knives right?"

"Yeah," Gabriel stood, and grabbed the red coat jacket off of his horse's back. He rubbed a hand through its mane "Being good Grisham?" He pulled the jacket on, and quickly did up the gold buttons that adorned it. He altered his uniform, and pulled the sleeve down over his hidden blade to be sure it would not shown. "You remember the plan?" Malcolm waved a dismissive hand.

"I got it, just keep some distance, we don't need to raise any suspicion." Malcolm swung himself onto his horse.

Gabriel did the same. "Says the guy not in a red coat uniform," he mumbled out. He dug his heels into the side of his horse, and directed it towards the city. The people on the road either looked at him with disgust, or admiration. One man spat in front of his horse's hooves. "Well that is just disgusting," he said, he could hear the disguisable laughs of Malcolm behind him. New York was very different from Boston, both being port type cities, New York may have been more lavish, but the people there were definitely less kind.

"I hear their registerin' in the square, those sons a bitches." A man said a he walked past Gabriel. He shot a quick angry look his way, but moved on. Gabriel pulled up on his horse's reins, and waited for Malcolm to catch up to him.

"Registering is in the square, meet you there." Gabriel said, and pressed forward on the main street.

Malcolm, however, turned to the nearest stable, and dropped some coins into the young boys hand. "You keep one of those, okay?" he whispered to the kid. The boy's face lit up, and he nodded taking the reins from Malcolm's hand. "Try to keep him where I can easily get to him, not sure how fast I'll be needing to leave." He turned from the stables and disappeared down one of the side streets. He ran up a stack of boxes, and latched onto a nearby window. Malcolm climbed, then swung himself up onto the roof, and crept out to a wooden beam protruding from it. He took a survey of the city around him, the square was a ways off, and Gabriel would definitely get there on horseback before he would. Malcolm stood from his crouched position, and backed up a couple steps. He sprinted off the edge of the roof, and leapt through the air. He collided with the wall of the next building, and slid down a couple feet before he got a solid grip on one of the windowsills. Malcolm looked over his shoulder at the ground below, he was probably ten feet above it. He let out a sigh of relief, and used his hand over hand motions to reach the next roof.

Gabriel had brought his horse to a trot, and reached the square in almost no time. Sure enough British soldiers littered the area, and a sizable crowd was listening to one of them talking up the British forces. He did his best not to roll his eyes at the blatant lies the soldier was feeding the people; after all he was supposed to be one of them. Gabriel looked around the area in search of Malcolm, but he was nowhere to be found. "God damn it Malcolm," he muttered "where are you?" As soon as he finished his sentence, the hay cart next to him rustled with movement, and Malcolm's head popped out from the straw.

"You called?"

"Bloody hell, Malcolm," Gabriel placed a hand over his accelerating heart. Malcolm only laughed, and jumped out of the hay pile. "Come on let's get to work, I'm going to try and blend in with the troops. You start a rise in the crowd." Malcolm nodded.

He moved his way in and out of the gaps of people, trying to make his way to the front. He reached up and pulled the tip of his hood down, so his face would remain hidden. The one soldier's statements became louder as Malcolm came closer.

"This is an opportunity to defend your mother country, to preserve your loyalty, and fight against your rebellious brethren." the soldiers voice was charismatic. Malcolm rolled his eyes.

"Is anyone actually buying this?" he mumbled out.

Almost as if he had heard him the man next to him said "Redcoats don't know nothing. Be better off without 'em." Malcolm smirked, and turned to the guy.

"You raise a good point friend, I mean this whole enlistment thing, who is it really helping? None of us actually want to join their side. It'd be better if we just," Malcolm trailed off, trying to bait the hook. "Well, I don't know just be better if someone did something about them." he crossed his arms, and smirked beneath his hood. Say what you want about him, but Malcolm was very good at manipulating people.

"You know what, you're right!" he heard the man say. "We don't need to listen to this garbage." Malcolm placed a hand on the hilt of his sword; he tensed his muscles preparing for the fight that was about to break out. "Come on all!" the man shouted, "Do any of really need to hear this, we won't be fighting for these bastards. Let's get 'em!" As if something clicked in all their brains, people started yelling shouts of agreement, and the crowd surged forward on the soldiers. Malcolm let the crowd work their way around him.

"Citizens," the announcing soldier called out as the crowd came running towards him "let's be reasonable." His voice was drowned out as some members of the crowd tackled him to the ground. Another three flipped over the table that had the enlistment book on it. Soldiers started circling the area, and drawing their swords. The crowd did not let up though, even with the threat of death, the continued to knock things down and over. One man knocked a soldier square in the face. And the rowdiness only grew from there. Until, a shot rang out, and one of the men at the front hit the ground with a lifeless thump. Malcolm narrowed his eyes, and waited.

"Stop this madness, immediately!" The people halted for a moment, and Malcolm felt a sense of panic come over him. No, no he couldn't fail a mission. He looked over to Gabriel, and Gabriel nodded to him.

"We're all tired of you trying to contain us!" Malcolm's voice stood out from the crowd, he drew his sword, and raised it upwards. "For the colonies!" He was surprised to hear a shout of agreement from the people around him, they started acting up again, some going after soldiers themselves. Screams, and shouts were heard in every direction. The riot had finally begun.

"Get him!" one of the soldiers said. Malcolm looked to his right, to see three men advancing on him. He held his sword at ready, and got into his proper stance. One came at him, in a charge; Malcolm ducked as he took a swing at his head. He brought his foot up and kicked the soldier square in the chest. He stumbled and fell back to the ground, where Malcolm, with a yell, jumped, and shoved his sword through the soldier's stomach. The other two came at him together, swinging their swords furiously. Malcolm unsheathed his hidden blade, slid his way behind one of the soldiers, and cut their throat. Blood spilled onto the ground, staining the cobblestone as the dying soldier clutched at his overflowing neck. The last one came towards him, and Malcolm fumbled to release his pistol. The soldier was seconds away from hacking off his head, until he fell to the ground, a throwing knife stuck out of his back. Malcolm looked up, and saw Gabriel, still on horseback smiling at him.

Gabriel jerked his head in the direction that they came from. The crowd was getting out of hand, bodies were on strewn the streets, both colonial, and British. Several windows had been broken with rocks, and rogue bullets. Gabriel had to kick down a few colonists who tried to wrestle him down from his horse, all the while mumbling about how he was really on their side. He watched Malcolm nod, and cut his way back through the crowd.

He shoved his heels into his horse's side, and sprinted through the square hearing shouts of protest come from the other British soldiers. Gabriel reached the back of the commotion to see Malcolm waiting for him. Without slowing down he reached out hand, and Malcolm clasped it swinging himself up onto the back of Gabriel's horse. "Well that went better than expected," Gabriel mused.

"Shut up, and get me back to that stable, no way I am riding like this all the way back to Boston."

* * *

Well hope you all liked it, I put a lot of work into it.

I'd also like to dedicate this chapter to** LunarBlaze**, who left me a wonderful review, and really inspired me to get to work on this chapter.

See you guys soon, feel free to review!


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